SPECIMENS 


OF 


PROSE  DESCRIPTION 


COMPILED  AND  EDITED 

CHARLES  SEARS  BALDWIN,    PH.  D. 

|| 

Instructor  in  T^hetoric  in  Yale  College  ;  formerly  Instructor 

in  Rhetoric  and  English  Composition  in 

Columbia  College 


WIVER 

v£*j  n- 


NEW  YORK 
HENRY   HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

1906 


SENEBAL 


COPYRIGHT,  1895, 

BY 
HENRY  HOLT  &  CO, 


THE  MKRSHON  COMPANY  PRESS, 
RAHWAY,  N.  J, 


PREFACE. 


THESE  Specimens  of  Prose  Description,  though 
intended  primarily  for  college  classes,  will  be  found 
available  in  the  higher  classes  of  schools.  For  not 
only  is  description,  in  its  simpler  forms,  the  kind  of 
writing  most  proper  to  elementary  work  in  composi- 
tion, but  even  the  theory  of  description,  and  its  appli- 
cation in  more  finished  art,  may  be  very  stimulating 
without  being  at  all  confusing.  In  fact,  it  is  difficult 
to  conduct  a  course  in  description  adequately  without 
leading  up  to  the  few  fundamental  principles  enunci- 
ated here.  And  where  the  elaboration  of  these  prin- 
ciples may  seem  beyond  the  grasp  of  the  younger 
student,  it  is  hoped  that  they  will  still  be  convenient 
for  the  teacher. 

To  avoid  the  ugliness  of  a  catalogue  of  fragments, 
the  shorter  extracts  have  been  grouped  within  the 
introduction.  Of  course  these  are  quite  as  important 
as  the  longer  pieces,  and  are  equally  recognized  in  the 
index.  Moreover,  they  serve,  not  only  to  give  point 
to  the  enunciation  of  principle,  but  also  to  obviate  the 
necessity  of  scattered  comment  on  the  longer  pieces. 
Instead  of  such  detailed  annotation,  it  seemed  better 
to  present  in  one  place,  as  compactly  as  possible,  the 
whole  theory  of  description;  to  fortify  this  theory  by 


IV  PREFACE. 

abundant  examples;  and  to  add  at  the  head  of  each 
longer  selection  only  such  notes  as  might  serve  to 
indicate  the  purpose  and  to  suggest  the  most  profit- 
able lines  of  study.  Thus  the  aim  has  been,  at  once 
to  furnish  doctrine  and  directions  for  its  application, 
and  to  leave  the  main  body  of  selections  free  for  such 
use  as  may  seem  best  for  each  class.  The  only 
exception  to  this  rule  is  in  Selection  I.,  where  the 
notes  are  intended  to  show  how  the  application  may 
be  made  in  detail. 

In  the  selection  of  the  longer  extracts  the  aim  has 
been  to  present  such  examples  of  all  worthy  methods 
as  seemed  most  apt  for  instruction.  Whether  a  given 
piece  were  characteristic  of  its  author,  whether  it 
were  famous, — these  considerations  were  but  second- 
ary. In  fact  most  of  the  selections  are  fairly  char- 
acteristic. As  for  fame,  the  descriptions  that  every 
one  has  heard  of  are  the  least  in  need  of  reprinting. 
Moreover,  they  are  not  the  most  likely  to  bear 
examination. 

Indeed,  the  editor  deprecates  all  charges  of  omis- 
sion. Scott  and  Thackeray,  Dickens  and  George 
Eliot,  are  so  near  to  every  one's  elbow  that  the  student 
should  be  encouraged  to  bring  into  class  and  discuss 
those  passages  which  seem  to  him  most  impressive. 
The  omission  of  every  teacher's  favorite  description 
is  of  the  less  moment  because  that  description  every 
teacher  will  surely  quote.  If  the  descriptions  found 
here  are  good,  each  in  its  kind;  if  the  kinds  are  many; 
finally,  if  the  method  in  each  case  is  pointed  without 
being  obtrusive,  this  little  book  will  serve  its  purpose. 

The  editor  wishes  to  express  his  appreciation  of  the 


PREFACE.  V 

courtesy  through  which  he  is  permitted  to  reprint 
many  of  his  best  extracts.  In  each  case  due  ac- 
knowledgment will  be  found  to  book,  author,  and 
publisher. 

To  Professor  G.  R.  Carpenter,  Professor  Brander 
Matthews,  Professor  Thomas  R.  Price,  and  Mr.  W. 
T.  Brewster  of  Columbia  College,  the  editor  presents 
his  sincere  thanks,  both  for  valuable  advice  and  for 
the  favor  of  corrections  in  proof. 

Perhaps  the  greatest  debt  is  to  the  dead.  In  look- 
ing over  the  first  rough  draft  of  his  introduction,  the 
editor  found  that  a  preponderating  number  of  cita^ 
tions  had  been  drawn  involuntarily  from  one  author. 
Though  he  was  moved  to  restore  equilibrium,  the 
editor  would  not  neglect  to  acknowledge  his  obliga- 
tion to  Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

COLUMBIA  COLLEGE,  May,  1895, 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Introduction,          «, ix 

I.     Ancient  Athens,     „         .       John  Henry  Newman.         I 

Edward  Gibbon.  10 


II.     Pestilence,      . 

Augustus  H.  Jessopp.       13 

III.  Paris  before  the  Second  Empire, 

George  du  Maurier.       19 

IV.  Bees, John  Burroughs.       28 

V.     The  Parish  of  Selborne,          .         .   Gilbert  White.       41 

VI.     Byzantium,    ....          Edward  Gibbon.       45 
VII.     Geneva,  .....    John  Ruskin.       52 

VIII.     The  Storming  of  the  Bastille,  Thomas  Carlyle.       61 

IX.     Sketches  by  Michael  Angelo, 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne.       70 

{I.     La  Gioconda,        V 
II.     A  Roman  Villa,    >     .         .     Walter  Pater.       73 
III.     Auxerre,  .     ) 

XI.     Blois,     ......    Henry  James.       81 

XII.     Spring  in  a  Side  Street,  .    Brander  Matthews.       92 

XIII.  Scenes  from  Western  Life,  .  Hamlin  Garland.  101 
The  South-Sea  House,  .  .  .  Charles  Lamb.  114 
Ser  Francesco  Goes  to  Church, 

Walter  Savage  Landor.     126 
A  Night  Among  the  Pines, 
Memoirs  of  an  Islet, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson.     134 


U 


THF 


or  . 

CAI  ire*:' 


INTRODUCTION. 


THE  series  of  specimens  of  which  Ithis  volume  is  a 
part  is  founded  upon  the  current  rhetorical  division  of 
Rhetoric    dis-  a^  writmg  ir}^°  ^our  kinds,  description, 
kindsisofs  writ-  narrati°n»  exposition,  and    persuasion.1 
ine-  The   convenience  of   this  division  has 

not  shielded  it  from  objection.  And  it  must  of 
course  remain  doubtful  to  which  category  many  well- 
known  writings  properly  belong.  Argument  hardly 
proceeds  without  exposition,  exposition  without 
description  ;  and  whether  a  given  work  shall  be 
classed  as  narration  or  as  description  it  is  often  im- 
possible to  decide.  The  object  of  the  division,  how- 
ever, is  not  to  classify  writings,  but  to  distinguish 
methods  of  writing.  Thus,  though  only  a  pedant 
would  insist  on  a  definite  label,  the  teacher  of  com- 
position insists  properly  on  the  definiteness  of  the 
methods,  now  argumentative,  now  expository,  now 
descriptive.  Thus  again,  though  none  of  the  selec- 
tions in  the  four  volumes  of  this  series  may  be  purely 
argumentative,  narrative,  expository,  descriptive,  each 
will  be  found  to  exemplify  some  distinct  phase  or 
phases  of  a  distinct  method. 

What  is  true  of  the  series  in  general  is  especially 

*  Including  argumentation. 
ix 


X  INTRODUCTION. 

true   of   this   volume.     No  form  of  writing  has  less 
independence  than  description.     Pieces  of  pure   de- 
scription are  rare  in  English  literature,  rare  especially 
Dependence  in  the,  literature  of  the  last  thirty  years, 
of  description.      Most  description  is  naturally  accessory 
to  narration,  and  naturally,  therefore,  brief  and  frag- 
mentary.    On  the  other  hand,  the  methods  of  descrip- 
tion are  distinct  and  tolerably  indepen- 

Description  .  .....  r^,1 

denned  by  its  dent,  because  its  aim  is  distinct.  1  he 
aim  of  description  is  the  suggestion  of 
mental  images  ; l  and  the  means  to  this  end  are  suffi- 
ciently distinct  from  the  means  of  securing  compre- 
hension, say,  or  conviction,  to  urge  separate  discussion 
and  separate  exemplification.  For  instance,  description 
seeks  to  present  the  individual,  exposition  the  class  ; 
description  the  concrete,  exposition  the  abstract.  In 
description,  action  is  purely  incidental  ;  in  narration, 
it  is  vital.8 

But  in  aiming  to  suggest  images  description  is  not 
only  distinguished  from  the  other  "  kinds  of  writing" ; 
it  is  at  once  associated  with  the  other  arts.  The  vul- 
gar phrase  "  word-painting  "  indicates  that.  Indeed, 

Description  this  word-painting,  this  apparent  ten- 
and  painting.  dency  in  description  to  poach  on  the 
manor  of  another  art,  has  excited  no  little  critical 
reprobation.  Without  beating  over  the  ground  so 
thoroughly  explored  by  Lessing,8  or  attempting  to 

1  For  more  elaborate  definition  see  Genung,  p.  326  ;  Fletcher 
and  Carpenter ,  p.  2. 
*  Genung,  p.  327. 
1  Laokoon,  cf.  especially  capp.  xvi,  xvii.     M.  Ferdinand  Bru« 


INTRODUCTION.  XI 

readjust  the  provinces  of  the  arts,  it  is  worth  while 
to  emphasize  one  practical  consideration. 

What  description  lacks  in  vividness  of  appeal  it 
properly  aims  to  make  good  in  range  of  appeal.  Cer- 
tainly description  may  be  said  to  fall  as  far  below 
painting  as  suggestion  falls  below  representation. 
But  it  is  idle  to  speak  of  them  as  rival  methods. 
The  representation  of  painting  is  limited  to  form 
and  attitude,  light  and  colour.  The  suggestions  of 
description,  feebler  in  these,  may  add  sound,  motion, 
and  even  odour.  The  opportunity  here,  as  will  appear 

The   range  of     later>  *s  not  so  HlUCll  to  accumulate  SUg- 

suggestion.  gestions  as  to  select  what  is  most  apt 
to  a  particular  case.  But  how  valuable  this  range  of 
appeal  is  in  itself  appears  in  descriptions  like  the 
following  : 

The  track  that  I  had  followed  in  the  evening  soon  died  out 
and  I  continued  to  follow  over  a  bald  turf  ascent  a  row  of  stone 
pillars,  such  as  had  conducted  me  across  the  Goulet.  It  was 
already  warm.  I  tied  my  jacket  on  the  pack,  and  walked  in  my 
knitted  waistcoat.  Modestine  herself  was  in  high  spirits,  and 
broke  of  her  own  accord,  for  the  first  time  in  my  experience,  into 
a  jolting  trot  that  sent  the  oats  swashing  in  the  pocket  of  my  coat. 
The  view,  back  upon  the  northern  Gtvaudan,  extended  with  every 
step  ;  scarce  a  tree,  scarce  a  house,  appeared  upon  the  fields  of 
wild  hill  that  ran  north,  east,  and  west,  all  blue  and  gold  in  the 
haze  and  sunlight  of  the  morning.  A  multitude  of  little  birds 
kept  sweeping  and  twittering  about  my  path  ;  they  perched  on 
the  stone  pillars,  they  pecked  and  strutted  on  the  turf,  and  I 

netiere  goes  farther  :  "  il  n'y  a  pas  de  commune  mesure  entre  les 
sensations  de  1'oreille  et  celles  de  1'oeil." — V Impressionismc  dam 
le  Roman,  pp.  103-108  of  le  Roman  Naturaliste. 


xii  INTRODUCTION. 

saw  them  circle  in  volleys  in  the  blue  air,  and  show,  from  time  to 
time,  translucent  flickering  wings  between  the  sun  and  me. 

Almost  from  the  first  moment  of  my  march,  a  faint  large  noise, 
like  a  distant  surf,  had  filled  my  ears.  Sometimes  I  was  tempted 
to  think  it  the  voice  of  a  neighboring  waterfall,  and  sometimes  a 
subjective  result  of  the  utter  stillness  of  the  hill.  But  as  I  con- 
tinued to  advance,  the  noise  increased  and  became  like  the  hissing 
of  an  enormous  tea-urn,  and  at  the  same  time  breaths  of  cool  air 
began  to  reach  me  from  the  direction  of  the  summit.  At  length 
I  understood.  It  was '  blowing  stiffly  from  the  south  upon  the 
other  slope  of  the  Lozere,  and  every  step  that  I  took  I  was  draw- 
ing nearer  to  the  wind. — Stevenson  :  Travels  with  a  Dvnkey. 

Colour,  form,  light,  sound,  odour,  motion,  evidently 
all  may  be  used  in  description.  To  be  constantly  mind- 
ful of  this  range  is  almost  to  insure  one's  self  against 
word-painting.  Though  sound  and  motion  are  more 
easily  and  properly  suggested  by  language,  yet  all  the 
others  may  play  some  part.  Which  is  most  useful  must 
be  decided  afresh  for  each  description.  In  general, 
all  the  play  of  light  and  shadow,  all  the  evanes- 
cent features  so  valuable  in  individualising  a  scene, 
and  even  the  movements  of  living  things,  are  deter- 
mined by  the  time  of  day  and  the  kind  of  light, 
Madison  Square  in  the  spring  has  one  aspect  at 
high  noon,  when  the  lawns  are  brilliant  in  colour, 
the  tulips  flaring  in  the  great  flower-beds,  the  spar- 
rows and  nurses  chattering  everywhere,  and  the 
loungers  filling  every  bench  ;  and  an^utterly  different 
aspect  an  hour  after  sundown,  when  the  birds  and 
the  nurses  are  gone,  the  tulips  closed,  and  the  electric 
lights  beginning  to  cast  sharp  lines  of  inky  shadow, 
and  to  turn  the  lawns  a  dull,  unnatural  hue. 

In  particular,  it  has  been  remarked  that  Shelley's 


INTRODUCTION.  X1U 

suggestiveness  arises  often  from  his  abundant  and  ex« 
quisite  use  of  the  half-forgotten  element 

Odour.  * 

of  odour.     The  mention  of  Greek  incense 
may  be  as  suggestive  of  a  Greek  church  as  the  resinous 
scent  of  burning  pin^  is  of  an  Adirondack  camp.1    v 
The  mention  of  colour  is,  perhaps,  more   faintly 
suggestive,  and  should  be  simple.     Re 
finement  of  hues  may  be  confusing.2 

Before  us  lies  a  sea  of  fern,  gone  a  russet  brown  from  decay, 
in  which  are  isles  of  dark  green  gorse,  and  little  trees  with  scarlet 
and  orange  and  lemon-colored  leaflets  fluttering  down,  and  run- 
ning after  each  other  on  the  bright  grass,  under  the  brisk  west 
wind  which  makes  the  willows  rustle,  and  turn  up  the  whites  of 
their  leaves  in  pious  resignation  to  the  coming  change. 

Harrow-on-the-Hill,  with  its  pointed  spire,  rises  blue  in  the 
distance  ;  and  distant  ridges,  like  receding  waves,  rise  into  blue- 
ness,  one  after  the  other,  out  of  the  low-lying  mist ;  the  last  ridge 
bluely  melting  into  space.  In  the  midst  of  it  all  gleams  the 
Welsh  Harp  Lake,  like  a  piece  of  sky  that  has  become  unstuck 
and  tumbled  into  the  landscape  with  its  shiny  side  up. — Du 
Maurier  :  Peter  Ibbetson. 

Sounds  may  be  suggested  more  quickly  and  defin- 
itely.    Wordsworth's    "soft   inland   murmur,"    Cole- 
Sound          ridge's  "  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge/' ! 
Dickens's   rooks   in    David  Copperfidd, 

1  See  also  Holmes  :  A  utocrat,  iv. 

8  Cf.  the  description  in  Ruskin's  Prceterita^  iii  (Naples,  January 
9,  1841),  vol.  ii,  p.  85,  of  the  Orpington  edition.  For  a  study 
in  contrasted  colours,  see  A  Cameo  and  A  Pastel,  by  Brander 
Matthews,  The  Story  of  a  Story  ^  Harper  &  Brothers,  1893. 

*  It  is  well  to  point  out  the  force  of  onomatopoeia,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  warn  against  the  abuse  of  it.  Cf.  the  opening  of 
Dickens's  Cricket  on  the  Hearth* 


XIV  INTRODUCTION. 

the  "  echoing  footsteps"  in  the  Tale  of  Two  Cities^ 
and  the  kettle  in  The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth  are 
famous  instances.  Further  citation  is  unnecessary  to 
show  that  description,  without  transgressing  its  proper 
limits,  may  attain  distinct  or  even  vivid  images  by  the 
range  of  its  appeal. 

Of  course  the  range  of  any  one  man's  appeal,  the 
extent  of  his  power  in  suggestion,  is  measured  by 
the  extent  and  the  keenness  of  his  own  perceptions. 
Herein  lies  the  real  affinity  of  description  to  the  other 
arts.  For  it  is  a  truism  that  all  artistic  training  is 
primarily  and  constantly  the  training  of  the  eye  or  the 
The  training  ear.  Truism  though  it  be,  however,  it 
of  the  senses.  should  never  become  stale  in  the  teach- 
ing of  description.  The  observation  of  most  men  is 
dim  in  perception  and  narrow  in  range.  When  the 
student  has  been  roused  from  blurred  impressions  of 
a  few  things  to  sharper  impressions  of  many  things,  his 
description  will  take  care  of  itself.  Better  than  that, 
his  whole  education  has  gained  a  great  impulse.  For 
this  reason  more  than  one  wise  teacher  has  made 
description  a  foundation  for  the  teaching  of  rhetoric. 
Do  you  know  how  a  cow  lies  down,  or  a  horse, 
or  a  dog,  or  a  cat?  Do  you  know  the  habits  of 
each  in  drinking?  Do  you  know  how  a  hansom 
cab  is  balanced,  or  how  a  railway  car  takes  a  curve  ? 
What  is  the  difference  in  appearance  between  an 
ailanthus  tree  and  a  walnut,  a  spruce  and  a  hemlock? 
How  of  the  note  of  the  meadow-lark,  or  the  Roman- 
esque revivals  in  contemporary  architecture  ?  Ques- 
tions like  these  have  been  known  to  stir  a  whole  class. 
Realization  of  the  range  of  suggestion,  the  awaken* 


INTRODUCTION.  XV 

ing   of   closer   observation,   these    are    prerequisites. 

Definite  instruction  begins  with  the  first  principle  of 

all  art,  the  principle  of  selection.     The 

The  catalogue. 

student  s  first  tendency  is  to  catalogue. 
He  needs  to  learn,  then,  first,  that  the  details  of  his 
mental  image  are  too  numerous  and  too  complex  to  be 
catalogued  ;  secondly,  that  the  catalogue,  even  if  he 
could  achieve  it,  would  not  be  suggestive.  Its  use  is 
for  identification,  not  for  suggestion.  It  has  no 
artistic  value.  Indeed,  progress  in  description  is 
mainly  the  development  of  an  ability  to  get  effects 
with  fewer  and  fewer  details. 

Be  the  details  few  or  many,  however,  they  must 
always  be  chosen — chosen  first  according  to  their 
choose  salient  prominence.  The  salient  details,  those 
details  that  leap  to  meet  the  senses,  are  evi- 

dently suggestive  :  the  clatter  of  a  New  York  street, 
the  white  glare  of  Athens,  the  scent  of  buckwheat,  the 
scarlet  coat  of  a  British  soldier.  But  some  details 
and  character-  tnat  are  not  salient  are  still  suggestive, 
istic  details.  because  they  are  characteristic,  as,  for 
instance,  the  fact  that  the  clocks  on  the  church  towers 
in  southeastern  Switzerland  have  only  one  hand,  or 
that  Coleridge  would  shift  constantly  from  one  side  of 
his  garden  path  to  the  other.  Whatever  serves  to 
individualise,  whatever  is  peculiar  to  the  time  or  the 
person  or  the  scene  described,  is  always  important  for 
description,  however  slight  its  intrinsic  value. 

Select  what  isjalient,  what  is  characteristic.  Fur- 
ther comment  tends  to  become  too  minute,  and  ir? 
any  case  the  choice  is  peculiarly  the  affair  of  the 
chooser.  According  as  a  writer  merely  suggests  whaf 


XVI  INTRODUCTION. 

he  sees,  or  projects  into  his  suggestion  his  own  per- 
sonal feeling,  his  description  is  said  to  be 

Description  ,  . 

objective  and      objective  or  subjective.     The  latter  kind 

•Ubjective.  —  ..      -r*  T      . 

is  naturally  the  more  common.  It  is, 
moreover,  the  habit  of  our  century  as  distinguished 
from  the  habit,  for  instance,  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, and  becomes  one  of  the  marks  of  Romanticism.1 
But  in  a  certain  sense  all  worthy  description  is  sub- 
jective ;  that  is,  \it  cannot  be  worthy  unless  it  repre- 
sent the  seeing  of  the  writer.)  No  two  men  see 
exactly  alike.  Literally  and  metaphorically  every 
man's  eyesight  is  really  distinct  from  every  other 
man's.  Specimens  of  description,  therefore,  should 
not  mislead  any  student  into  attempting  Hawthorne 
description  or  Stevenson  description./  Imitation  here, 
The  study  of  as  *n  all  rhetorical  study,  should  be 

study  of  method.  ;  The  student  on  his 
high  stool  at  the  Louvre  is  not  trying  to  paint  like 
Rembrandt  or  Murillo.  He  is  learning  the  manage- 
ment of  colour  and  light.  (And  invaluable  as  is  this 
study  of  models,  his  task  remains  to  see  for  himself 
and  to  paint  what  he  sees.  )  No  other  way  is 
thoroughly  worth  while. 

With  these  conditions,  the  study  of  models  may  be 
assisted  by  suck  a  classification  as  shall  lead  from  the 
simplest  handling  of  details,  through  more  elaborate 
treatment,  to  the  most  artistic  method.  It  will  be  un- 
derstood, however,  that  any  given  description  may 
combine  several  methods,  —  that  no  description,  in 


1  See  W.  L.  Phelps  :  English  Romantic  Movement,  p.  4. 
kin  :  Pratfrita,  §  vi  (vol.  i,  p.  195,  Orpington  edition). 


INTRODUCTION.  XV11 

fact,  is  likely  to  employ  one  method  exclusively.    The 
selections,  therefore,  both  in  this  introduction  and  in 
simple  enu-      tne  pages    following,   are   grouped    ac- 
meration.  cording  to  the  method  that,  in  each  case, 

is  dominant.     Now  the  simplest  method  is  enumer- 
ation. 

The  warrant  for  the  arrest  of  Defoe  described  him 
as  follows : 

He  is  a  middle-aged,  spare  man,  about  forty  years  old,  of  a 
brown  complexion,  and  dark-brown  coloured  hair,  but  wears  a 
wig  ;  a  hooked  nose,  a  sharp  chin,  grey  eyes,  and  a  large  mole 
near  his  mouth. 

This  is  not  very  suggestive.  Indeed,  the  lesson  of 
the  description  in  a  warrant  is,  first,  how  weak  in  sug- 
gestion the  enumeration  of  details-may  be,  and,  sec- 
ondly, how  important  is  the  slightest  detail  that  is 
individual.  ^Note  in  the  following  the  same  method 
more  artistically  applied  : 

Nine  years  old,  on  3d  January,  1858,  thus  now  rising  towards 
ten  ;  neither  tall  nor  short  for  her  age  ;  a  little  stiff  in  her  way  of 
standing.  The  eyes  rather  deep  blue  at  that  time,  and  fuller  and 
softer  afterwards.  Lips  perfectly  lovely  in  profile  ; — a  little  too 
wide  and  hard  in  the  edge,  seen  in  front ;  the  rest  of  the  features 
what  a  fair,  well-bred  Irish  girl's  usually  are  ;  the  hair,  perhaps, 
more  graceful  in  short  curl  round  the  forehead,  and  softer  than 
one  sees  often,  in  the  close-bound  tresses  above  the  neck. — Rus- 
kin  :  Praterita^  iii. 

How  suggestive  enumeration  may  be  appears  in  the 
following  descriptions  : 

Almost  every  body  knows,  in  our  part  of  the  world  at  least, 
how  pleasant  and  soft  the  fall  of  the  land  is  round  about  Plover's 
Barrows  farm.  All  above  it  is  strong  dark  mountain,  spread  with 


xviii  INTRODUCTION. 

heath,  and  desolate,  but  near  our  house  the  valleys  cove,  and  open 
warmth  and  shelter.  Here  are  trees,  and  bright  green  grass,  and 
orchards  full  of  contentment,  and  a  man  may  scarce  espy  the 
brook,  although  he  hears  it  everywhere.  And,  indeed,  a  stout 
good  piece  of  it  comes  through  our  farm-yard,  and  swells  some- 
times to  a  rush  of  waves,  when  the  clouds  are  on  the  hill-tops. 
But  all  below,  where  the  valley  bends,  and  the  Lynn  stream 
goes  along  with  it,  pretty  meadows  slope  their  breast,  and  the  sun 
spreads  on  the  water.,  And  nearly  all  of  this  is  ours,  till  you  come 
to  Nicholas  Snowe's  land. — Blackmore  :  Lorna  Doom. 

It  was  a  delicious  drive  quite  of  itself,  and  the  great  end  in 
view  added  a  piquancy  to  the  excursion  that  not  every  one  who 
posts  toward  San  Gimignano  can  hope  to  enjoy.  The  weather 
was  charming, — bright  yet  cool  ;  the  country  was  ravishing,  being 
in  the  first  full  green  of  spring  ;  and  the  country-folk,  flocking  to 
or  from  some  great  festa,  filled  the  winding  and  undulating  roads 
with  a  gay  excess  of  life  and  color.  The  cypressed  villas,  the 
ruinous  old  abbeys  in  delightful  gothic  brickwork,  the  campanili 
of  village  churches  rising  from  the  olived  slopes  of  hillsides,  the 
twisted  graces  of  vine-wreathed  pergole,  the  wide-flapping  straw 
hats  of  the  women  trudging  by,  the  jauntily-carried  jackets  of  the 
men,  the  gay  romping  of  blossom-snatching  children,  the  bustle 
of  roadside  osterie,  the  slow  jolting  of  ox-carts  along  the  common 
highway,  the  sturdy-arched,  low-roofed  farmhouses,  the  flowers, 
the  sunshine,  the  lightly  stirring  breeze,— all  the  thousand  things 
that  combine  into  that  inexhaustible  feast  of  grace  and  beauty 
and  social  and  historical  interest  which  Tuscany  knows  so  well 
how  to  spread,  caused  our  two  friends  more  than  once  to  quite 
lose  sight  of  the  great  undertaking  that  they  had  been  commis- 
sioned to  carry  through  ;  and,  for  the  half  hour  previous  to  the 
first  appearance  of  San  Gimignano's  high-set  coronet  of  towers,  I 
doubt  if  the  Madonna  Incognita  received  from  them  the  tribute  of 
a  single  thought.—  Henry  B.  Fuller  :  The  Chevalier  of  Pensieri- 
Vani^  cap.  iii. 

But  high  up  in  the  steeple  !     There  the  foul  blast  roars  and 
whistles!     High  up  in  the  steeple,  where  it  is  free  to  come  and 


INTRODUCTION.  xix 

go  through  many  an  airy  arch  and  loophole,  and  to  twist  and 
twine  itself  about  the  giddy  stair,  and  twirl  the  groaning  weather- 
cock, and  make  the  very  tower  shake  and  shiver !  High  up  in 
the  steeple  where  the  belfry  is,  and  iron  rails  are  ragged  with 
rust,  and  sheets  of  lead  and  copper,  shrivelled  by  the  changing 
weather,  crackle  and  heave  beneath  the  unaccustomed  tread  ;  and 
birds  stuff  shabby  nests  into  corners  of  old  oaken  joists  and 
beams  ;  and  dust  grows  old  and  grey  ;  and  speckled  spiders,  in- 
dolent and  fat  with  long  security,  swing  idly  to  and  fro  in  the 
vibration  of  the  bells,  and  never  loose  their  hold  upon  their  thread- 
spun  castles  in  the  air,  or  climb  up  sailor-like  in  quick  alarm,  or 
drop  upon  the  ground  and  ply  a  score  of  nimble  legs  to  save  a 
life  ! — Dickens  :  The  Chimes. 

Besides,  some  of  the  smaller  cities  are  charming.  If  they  have 
an  old  church  or  two,  a  few  stately  mansions  of  former  grandees, 
here  and  there  an  old  dwelling  with  the  second  story  projecting, 
(for  the  convenience  of  shooting  the  Indians  knocking  at  the  front- 
door with  their  tomahawks,) — if  they  have,  scattered  about,  those 
mighty  square  houses  built  something  more  than  half  a  century 
ago,  and  standing  like  architectural  bowlders  dropped  by  the  for- 
mer diluvium  of  wealth,  whose  refluent  wave  has  left  them  as  its 
monument, — if  they  have  gardens  with  elbowed  apple-trees  that 
push  their  branches  over  the  high  board-fence  and  drop  their  fruit 
on  the  sidewalk, — if  they  have  a  little  grass  in  the  side-streets, 
enough  to  betoken  quiet  without  proclaiming  decay, — I  think  I 
conk*  go  to  pieces,  after  my  life's  work  were  done,  in  one  of  those 
tranquil  places,  as  sweetly  as  in  any  cradle  that  an  old  man  may 
be  rocked  to  sleep  in. — Holmes  :  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table. 

The  last  selection  hints  that  enumeration  needs 
usually  some  distinct  suggestion  of  the  whole,  some 

single  impression  to  give  unitoL-and  co- 
Enumeration  .   <— 7* 
with  suggestion  herencc   to  the  successive  impressions 

of  the  whole.  .  .       . 

of  the  separate  details.  This  impres- 
sion of  the  whole  may  be  of  the  simplest,  as  at  the 
beginning  of  Defoe's  description  of  Winchester  : 


xx  INTRODUCTION. 

From  hence,  at  the  end  of  seven  miles  over  the  Downs,  we 
come  to  the  very  ancient  city  of  Winchester ;  not  only  the  great 
church  (which  is  so  famous  all  over  Europe,  and  has  been  so  much 
talked  of),  but  even  the  whole  city  has  at  a  distance  the  face  of 
venerable,  and  looks  ancient  afar  off  ;  and  yet  here  are  many 
modern  buildings  too,  and  some  very  handsome. — London  to 
Land's  End. 

Again,  the  impression  of  the  whole  may  be  used  to 
pervade  the  whole  enumeration  and  give  it  tone,  as 
often  in  Carlyle  : 

Mrs.  Sterling,  even  in  her  later  days,  had  still  traces  of  the  old 
beauty  :  then  and  always  she  was  a  woman  of  delicate,  pious, 
affectionate  character  ;  exemplary  as  a  wife,  a  mother  and  a 
friend.  A  refined  female  nature ;  something  tremulous  in  it, 
timid,  and  with  a  certain  rural  freshness  still  unweakened  by  long 
converse  with  the  world.  The  tall,  slim  figure,  always  of  a  kind 
of  quaker  neatness  ;  the  innocent  anxious  face,  anxious  bright 
hazel  eyes  ;  the  timid,  yet  gracefully  cordial  ways,  the  natural  in- 
telligence, instinctive  sense  and  worth,  were  very  characteristic. 
Her  voice,  too,  with  its  something  of  soft  querulousness,  easily 
adapting  itself  to  a  light  thin-flowing  style  of  mirth  on  occasion, 
was  characteristic  :  she  had  retained  her  Ulster  intonations,  and 
was  withal  somewhat  copious  in  speech.  A  fine,  tremulously 
sensitive  nature,  strong  chiefly  on  the  side  of  the  affections,  and 
the  graceful  insights  and  activities  that  depend  on  these  : — truly  a 
beautiful,  much-suffering,  much-loving  house-mother. — Life  of 
John  Sterling. 

In  my  last  I  gave  you  the  particulars  of  our  little  journey  to 
Geneva :  I  have  only  to  add  that  we  stayed  about  a  week  in  or- 
der to  see  Mr.  Conway  settled  there  :  I  do  not  wonder  so  many 
English  choose  it  for  their  residence  ;  the  city  is  very  small, 
neat,  prettily  built,  and  extremely  populous  ;  the  Rhone  runs 
through  the  middle  of  it,  and  it  is  surrounded  with  new  fortifica- 
tions, that  give  it  a  military  compact  air  ;  which,  joined  to  the 
happy,  lively  countenances  of  the  inhabitants,  and  an  exact  dis- 


INTRODUCTION.  XXI 

dpline  always  as  strictly  observed  as  in  time  of  war,  makes  the 
little  republic  appear  a  match  for  a  much  greater  power  ;  though 
perhaps  Geneva,  and  all  that  belongs  to  it,  are  not  of  equal  extent 
with  Windsor  and  its  two  parks.  To  one  that  has  passed  through 
Savoy,  as  we  did,  nothing  can  be  more  striking  than  the  contrast, 
as  soon  as  he  approaches  the  town.  Near  the  gates  of  Geneva 
runs  the  torrent  Arve,  which  separates  it  from  the  King  of  Sar- 
dinia's dominions  ;  on  the  other  side  of  it  lies  a  country  naturally, 
indeed,  fine  and  fertile  ;  but  you  meet  with  nothing  in  it  but 
meagre,  ragged,  bare-footed  peasants,  with  their  children,  in  ex- 
treme misery  and  nastiness  ;  and  even  of  these  no  great  numbers. 
You  no  sooner  have  crossed  the  stream  I  have  mentioned,  but 
poverty  is  no  more  ;  not  a  beggar,  hardly  a  discontented  face  to 
be  seen  ;  numerous  and  well-dressed  people  swarming  on  the  ram- 
parts ;  drums  beating,  soldiers,  well  clothed  and  armed,  exercising  ; 
and  folks,  with  business  in  their  looks,  hurrying  to  and  fro  ;  all 
contribute  to  make  any  person,  who  is  not  blind,  sensible  what  a 
difference  there  is  between  the  two  governments,  that  are  the 
causes  of  one  view  and  the  other. — Gray  to  Philip  Gray,  Lyons^ 
October  25,  N.  S.,  1739. 

This  method,  when  used  to  emphasize  the  peculiar 
character  of  a  person  or  a  place,  becomes  what,  in 
painting,  is  called  genre  study.1 

In  enumerative  descriptions  of  places  the  impres- 
sion of  the  whole  is  often  strengthened  by  some  indi- 
cation of  plan,  some  grouping  to  avoid 

Enumeration  .  . 

with    grouping  confusion.     This,  again,  may  be  ot  the 

on  plan.  . ,  , 

simplest.  In  Ruskm  s  famous  descrip- 
tion of  St.  Mark's  the  details  are  given  from  below 
upward.  Equally  simple  are  the  following  : 

The  shores,  now  covered  by  the  city  of  Oswego,  were  then  a 
desolation  of  bare  hills  and  fields,  studded  with  the  stumps  of 
felled  trees,  and  hedged  about  with  a  grim  border  of  forests.  Near 

1  Cf.  Selection  XI. 


xxii  INTRODUCTION. 

the  strand,  by  the  mouth  of  the  Onondaga,  were  the  houses  of 
some  of  the  traders  :  and  on  the  higher  ground  behind  them  stood 
a  huge  block-house,  with  a  projecting  upper  story.  This  building 
was  surrounded  by  a  rough  wall  of  stone,  with  flankers  at  the 
angles,  forming  what  was  called  the  fort. — Parkman  :  Montcalm 
and  Wolfe. 

Only  figure  to  yourself  a  vast  semicircular  basin,  full  of  fine 
blue  sea,  and  vessels  of  all  sorts  and  sizes,  some  sailing  out,  some 
coming  in,  and  others  at  anchor  ;  and  all  around  it  palaces,  and 
churches  peeping  over  one  another's  heads,  gardens,  and  marble 
terraces  full  of  orange  and  cypress  trees,  fountains,  and  trellis- 
works  covered  with  vines,  which  altogether  compose  the  grandest 
of  theatres. — Gray  to  Richard  West,  Genoa ,  November  21,  1739. 

His  study-room  in  this  house  was  perhaps  mainly  the  drawing- 
room  ;  looking  out  safe,  over  the  little  dingy  grass-plot  in  front, 
and  the  quiet  little  row  of  houses  opposite,  with  the  huge  dust- 
whirl  of  Oxford  Street  and  London  far  enough  ahead  of  you  as 
background, — as  back-curtain,  blotting  out  only  half  your  blue 
hemisphere  with  dust  and  smoke.  On  the  right,  you  had  the  con- 
tinuous growl  of  the  Uxbridge  Road  and  its  wheels,  coming  as 
lullaby  not  interruption.  Leftward  and  rearward,  after  some  thin 
belt  of  houses,  lay  mere  country  ;  bright  sweeping  green  ex- 
panses, crowned  by  pleasant  Hampstead,  pleasant  Harrow,  with 
their  rustic  steeples  rising  against  the  sky. — Carlyle  :  Life  of 
John  Sterling. 

There  were  few  cities  of  the  Netherlands  more  picturesque  in 
situation,  more  trimly  built,  and  more  opulent  of  aspect  than  the 
little  city  of  Namur.  Seated  at  the  confluence  of  the  Sambre  with 
the  Meuse,  and  throwing  over  each  river  a  bridge  of  solid  but 
graceful  structure,  it  lay  in  the  lap  of  a  most  fruitful  valley.  A 
broad,  crescent-shaped  plain,  fringed  by  the  rapid  Meuse  and 
enclosed  by  gently  rolling  hills  cultivated  to  their  crests,  or  by 
abrupt  precipices  of  limestone  crowned  with  verdure,  was  divided 
by  numerous  hedgerows,  and  dotted  all  over  with  cornfields, 
vineyards,  and  flower-gardens.  Many  eyes  have  gazed  with 


INTRODUCTION.  xxill 

delight  upon  that  well-known  and  most  lovely  valley,  and 
tnany  torrents  of  blood  have  mingled  with  those  glancing  waters 
Mnce  that  long-buried  and  most  sanguinary  age  which  forms 
our  theme  ;  and  still  placid  as  ever  is  the  valley,  brightly  as 
«*ver  flows  the  stream.  Even  now,  as  in  that  vanished  but  never- 
forgotten  time,  nestles  the  little  city  in  the  angle  of  the  two 
rivers  ;  still  directly  over  its  head  seems  to  hang  in  mid-air  the 
massive  and  frowning  fortress,  like  the  gigantic  helmet  in  fiction, 
as  if  ready  to  crush  the  pigmy  town  below. — Motley  :  Rise  of  the 
Dutch  Republic,  Part  v,  cap.  iii. 

Often,  however,  clearness  demands  a  more  distinct, 
or  even  a  more  formal,  plan.  The  look  of  the  whole 
cannot  be  secured  without  establishing  some  frame- 
work on  which  the  details  may  be  hung  without  con- 
fusion. Thus  the  basis  of  Victor  Hugo's  description 
of  the  field  of  Waterloo  is  a  capital  A.  Thus  Mr. 
Rudyard  Kipling  presents  the  manoeuvres  of  a  sham 
campaign  : 

The  Army  of  the  South  had  finally  pierced  the  centre  of  the- 
Army  of  the  North,  and  was  pouring  through  the  gap  hot-foot  to 
capture  a  city  of  strategic  importance.  Its  front  extended  fan- 
wise,  the  sticks  being  represented  by  regiments  strung  out  along  the 
Kne  of  route  backwards  to  the  divisional  transport  columns  and  all 
the  lumber  of  an  army  on  the  move.  On  its  right  the  broken  left 
of  the  Army  of  the  North  was  flying  in  mass.  .  .  The  elated  com- 
mandant of  the  pursuing  force  telegraphed  that  he  held  all  in 
check  and  observation.  Unluckily  he  did  not  observe  that  three 
miles  to  his  right  flank  a  flying  column  of  Northern  horse  .  .  . 
had  been  pushed  around  ...  to  cut  across  the  entire  rear  of  the 
Southern  army,  to  break,  as  it  were,  all  the  ribs  of  the  fan  where 
they  converged. — Kipling  :  The  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd. 

Though  Constantino,  from  a  very  obvious  prejudice,  affects  to 
mention  the  palace  of  Diocletian  with  contempt,  yet  one  of  their 
successors,  who  could  only  see  it  in  a  neglected  and  mutilated 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION. 

state,  celebrates  its  magnificence  in  terms  of  the  highest  admira- 
tion. It  covered  an  extent  of  ground  consisting  of  between  nine 
and  ten  English  acres.  The  form  was  quadrangular,  flanked  with 
sixteen  towers.  Two  of  the  sides  were  near  six  hundred,  and  the 
other  two  near  seven  hundred,  feet  in  length.  The  whole  was 
constructed  of  a  beautiful  free-stone,  extracted  from  the  neighbour- 
ing quarries  of  Trau,  or  Tragutium,  and  very  little  inferior  to 
marble  itself.  Four  streets,  .intersecting  each  other  at  right  angles, 
divided  the  several  parts  of  this  great  edifice,  and  the  approach  to 
the  principal  apartment  was  from  a  very  stately  entrance,  which  is 
still  denominated  the  Golden  Gate. — Gibbon  :  Decline  and  Fall, 
cap.  xiii. 

The  Bay  of  Monterey  has  been  compared  by  no  less  a  person 
than  General  Sherman  to  a  bent  fishing-hook  ;  and  the  compari- 
son, if  less  important  than  the  march  through  Georgia,  still  shows 
the  eye  of  a  soldier  for  topography.  Santa  Cruz  sits  exposed  at 
the  shank  ;  the  mouth  of  the  Salinas  river  is  at  the  middle  of  the 
bend  ;  and  Monterey  itself  is  cosily  ensconced  beside  the  barb. 
Thus  the  ancient  capital  of  California  faces  across  the  bay,  while 
the  Pacific  Ocean,  though  hidden  by  low  hills  and  forest,  bom- 
bards her  left  flank  and  rear  with  never-dying  surf.  In  front  of 
the  town,  the  long  line  of  sea-beach  trends  north  and  north-west, 
and  then  westward  to  enclose  the  bay. — Stevenson  :  Across  the 
Plains. 

This  method  is  used  in  histories  to  call  up  a  sort  of 
mental  sketch-map  : 

French  America  had  two  heads, — one  among  the  snows  of 
Canada,  and  one  among  the  cane-brakes  of  Louisiana ;  one  com- 
municating with  the  world  through  the  Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence,  and 
the  other  through  the  Gulf  of  Mexico.  These  vital  points  were 
feebly  connected  by  a  chain  of  military  posts, — slender,  and  often 
interrupted,— circling  through  the  wilderness  nearly  three  thousand 
miles.  Midway  between  Canada  and  Louisiana  lay  the  valley  of 
the  Ohio.  If  the  English  should  seize  it,  they  would  sever  the 
chain  of  posts,  and  cut  French  America  asunder.  If  the  French 


INTRODUCTION.  XXV 

held  it,  and  entrenched  themselves  well  along  its  eastern  limits, 
they  would  shut  their  rivals  between  the  Alleghanies  and  the 
sea,  control  all  the  tribes  of  the  West,  and  turn  them,  in  case  of 
war,  against  the  English  borders, — a  frightful  and  insupportable 
scourge.1 — Parkman  :  Montcalm  and  Wolfe. 

More  important  even  than  a  plan,  however,  in 
securing  the  impression  of  the  whole,  is  some  distinct 
indication  of  the  point  of  view.2  The  point  of  view, 

The  point  of  indeed,  often  determines  the  plan,  as  it 
always  determines  the  aspect  of  the 
whole.  Disregard  of  this  cardinal  maxim  may  con- 
fuse an  entire  description  or  render  it  absurd.  On 
the  other  hand,  insistence  on  this  point  strikes  at  the 
root  of  vulgar  conventions.  The  description  of  a 
prospect  from  some  point  near  a  river  bank  must  not 
speak  of  the  stream  as  a  silver  thread,  nor  of  the 
coarse  prairie  grass  all  about  as  velvety.  It  would  be 
an  equally  gross  error  were  the  same  scene  described 
from  some  high  bluff,  to  speak  of  the  prairie  grass, 
with  its  gaudy  flowers  and  its  countless  insects,  as  a 
miniature  tropical  forest,  a  comparison  apt  enough  to 
a  man  lying  on  his  back  in  the  tangle  of  it.3  The 
following  presents  the  same  scene  from  two  points  of 
view,  both  carefully  indicated  : 

Upon  these  rocks  there  was  nothing  that  could  long  detain 
attention,  and  we  soon  turned  our  eyes  to  the  Duller  or  Bouilloir 
of  Buchan,  which  no  man  can  see  with  indifference,  who  has 

1  Cf.   Motley  :    Dutch  Republic,    Histor.   Introd.,   p.  I  ;     and 
the  description  of  Harlem  in  Part  iii,  cap.  viii. 

2  Cf.  Genung,  329. 

1  For  the  application  of  this  principle  to  decorative  art,  sec 
Ruskin  :  Stones  of  Venice,  cap.  xxi,  §  xvii. 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION. 

either  sense  of  danger,  or  delight  in  rarity.  It  is  a  rock  perpen« 
dicularly  tubulated,  united  on  one  side  with  a  high  shore,  and  on 
the  other  rising  steep  to  a  great  height  above  the  main  sea.  The 
top  is  open,  from  which  may  be  seen  a  dark  gulf  of  water  which 
flows  into  the  cavity,  through  a  breach  made  in  the  lower  part  of 
the  enclosing  rock.  It  has  the  appearance  of  a  vast  well  bordered 
with  a  wall.  The  edge  of  the  Buller  is  not  wide,  and  to  those 
that  walk  round,  appears  very  narrow.  He  that  ventures  to  look 
downward,  sees  that  if  his  foot  should  slip,  he  must  fall  from  his 
dreadful  elevation  upon  stones  on  one  side,  or  into  the  water  on 
the  other.  We,  however,  went  round,  and  were  glad  when  the 
circuit  was  completed. 

When  we  came  down  to  the  sea,  we  saw  some  boats,  and  rowers, 
and  resolved  to  explore  the  Buller  at  the  bottom.  We  entered 
the  arch,  which  the  water  had  made,  and  found  ourselves  in  a  place, 
which,  though  we  could  not  think  ourselves  in  danger,  we  could 
scarcely  survey  without  some  recoil  of  the  mind.  The  basin  in 
which  we  floated  was  nearly  circular,  perhaps  thirty  yards  in 
diameter.  We  were  enclosed  by  a  natural  wall,  rising  steep  on 
every  side  to  a  height  which  produced  the  idea  of  insurmountable 
confinement.  The  interception  of  all  lateral  light  caused  a  dismal 
gloom.  Round  us  was  a  perpendicular  rock,  above  us  the  distant 
sky,  and  below  an  unknown  profundity  of  water.  If  I  had  any 
malice  against  a  walking  spirit,  instead  of  laying  him  in  the  Red 
Sea,  I  would  condemn  him  to  reside  in  the  Buller  of  Buchan. — 
Johnson  :  Journey  to  the  Western  Islands. 

Note  how  carefully  the  arrangement  of  details  is 
determined  in  each  case  by  the  point  of  view  in  the 
two  following  descriptions  of  the  same  valley  :  l 

The  chine  of  highland,  whereon  we  stood,  curved  to  the  right 
and  left  of  us,  keeping  about  the  same  elevation,  and  crowned 
with  trees  and  brushwood.  At  about  half  a  mile  in  front  of  us, 
but  looking  as  if  we  could  throw  a  stone  to  strike  any  man  upon 

1  Cf.  notes  on  these  passages  in  Genuntr :  Handbook  oj 
Rhetorical  Analysis •,  p.  156 


INTRODUCTION.  XXVli 

it,  another  crest,  just  like  our  own,  bowed  around  to  meet  it  ;  but 
failed,  by  reason  of  two  narrow  clefts,  of  which  we  could  only  see 
the  brink.  One  of  these  clefts  was  the  Doone-gate,  with  a  port- 
cullis of  rock  above  it  ;  and  the  other  was  the  chasm,  by  which  I 
had  once  made  entrance.  Betwixt  them,  where  the  hills  fell  back, 
as  in  a  perfect  oval,  traversed  by  the  winding  water,  lay  a  bright 
green  valley,  rimmed  with  sheer  black  rock,  and  seeming  to  have 
sunken  bodily  from  the  bleak  rough  heights  above.  It  looked  as 
if  no  frost  could  enter,  neither  winds  go  ruffling  ;  only  spring,  and 
hope,  and  comfort,  breathe  to  one  another.  Even  now  the  rays  of 
sunshine  dwelt,  and  fell  back  on  themselves,  whenever  the  clouds 
lifted  ;  and  the  pale  blue  glimpse  of  the  growing  day  seemed  to 
find  young  encouragement. 

A  very  rough  and  headstrong  road  was  all  that  she  remembered, 
for  she  could  not  think  as  she  wished  to  do,  with  the  cold  iron 
pushed  against  her.  At  the  end  of  this  road  they  delivered  her 
eyes,  and  she  could  scarce  believe  them. 

For  she  stood  at  the  head  of  a  deep  green  valley,  carved  from 
out  the  mountains  in  a  perfect  oval,  with  a  fence  of  sheer  rock 
standing  round  it,  eighty  feet  or  a  hundred  high  ;  from  whose  brink 
black  wooded  hills  swept  up  to  the  sky-line.  By  her  side  a  little 
river  glided  out  from  underground  with  a  soft  dark  babble,  un- 
awares of  daylight  ;  then,  growing  brighter,  lapsed  away,  and  fell 
into  the  valley.  There,  as  it  ran  down  the  meadow,  alders  stood 
on  either  marge,  and  grass  was  blading  out  upon  it,  and  yellow 
tufts  of  rushes  gathered,  looking  at  the  hurry.  But  further  down, 
on  either  bank,  were  covered  houses,  built  of  stone,  square  and 
roughly  cornered,  set  as  if  the  brook  were  meant  to  be  the  street 
between  them.  Only  one  room  high  they  were,  and  not  placed 
opposite  each  other,  but  in  and  out,  as  skittles  are  ;  only  that  the 
first  of  all,  which  proved  to  be  the  captain's,  was  a  sort  of  double 
house,  or  rather,  two  houses  joined  together  by  a  plank-bridge 
over  the  river. — Blackmore  :  Lorna  Doom. 

Compare  also  the  following  : 

It  stands  in  a  little  quiet  valley,  which  gradually  rises  behind 
the  ruins  into  a  half-circle  crowned  with  thick  wood.  Before  it, 


xxviii  INTRODUCTION. 

on  a  descent,  is  a  thicket  of  oaks,  that  serves  to  veil  it  from  the 
broad  day  and  from  profane  eyes,  only  leaving  a  peep  on  both 
sides,  where  the  sea  appears  glittering  through  the  shade,  and 
vessels,  with  their  white  sails,  that  glide  across  and  are  lost  again. 
Concealed  behind  the  thicket  stands  a  little  castle  (also  in  ruins), 
immediately  on  the  shore,  that  commands  a  view  over  an  expanse 
of  sea  clear  and  smooth  as  glass  (when  I  saw  it),  with  Southamp- 
ton and  several  villages  three  miles  off  to  the  right,  Calshot  Castle 
at  seven  miles'  distance,  and  the  high  lands  of  the  Isle  of  Wight 
to  the  left,  and  in  front  the  deep  shades  of  the  New  Forest  dis- 
tinctly seen,  because  the  water  is  no  more  than  three  miles  over. — 

Gray  to  the  Rev.  James  Brown,  October,  1764. 
i 

We  must  still  have  spent  some  time  in  town-seeing,  for  it  was 
drawing  toward  sunset  when  we  got  up  to  some  sort  of  garden 
promenade — west  of  the  town,  I  believe,  and  high  above  the 
Rhine,  so  as  to  command  the  open  country  across  it  to  the  south 
and  west.  At  which  open  country  of  low  undulation,  far  into 
blue, — gazing  as  at  one  of  our  own  distances  from  Malvern  of 
Worcestershire,  or  Dorking  of  Kent — suddenly — behold — 
beyond — 

There  was  no  thought  in  any  of  us  for  a  moment  of  their  being 
clouds.  They  were  clear  as  crystal,  sharp  on  the  pure  horizon 
sky,  and  already  tinged  with  rose  by  the  sinking  sun.  Infinitely 
beyond  all  that  we  had  ever  thought  or  dreamed, — the  seen  walls 
of  lost  Eden  could  not  have  been  more  beautiful  to  us  ;  not  more 
awful,  round  heaven,  the  walls  of  sacred  Death. — Ruskin  :  Pra- 
ter ita,  vi  (view  of  the  Alps  from  Schaffhausen). 

The  traveller  from  the  coast,  who,  after  plodding  for  a  score  of 
miles  over  calcareous  downs  and  corn  lands,  suddenly  reaches  the 
verge  of  one  of  these  escarpments,  is  surprised  and  delighted  to 
behold,  extended  like  a  map  beneath  him,  a  country  differing  ab- 
solutely from  that  which  he  has  passed  through.  Behind  him  the 
hills  are  open,  the  sun  blazes  down  upon  fields  so  large  as  to  give 
an  unenclosed  character  to  the  landscape,  the  lanes  are  white,  the 
hedges  low  and  plashed,  the  atmosphere  colourless.  Here,  in  the 
valley,  the  world  seems  to  be  constructed  upon  a  smaller  and  more 


INTRODUCTION.  xxix 

delicate  scale  ;  the  fields  are  mere  paddocks,  so  reduced  that  from 
this  height  their  hedge-rows  appear  a  net-work  of  dark  green  threads 
overspreading  the  paler  green  of  the  grass.  The  atmosphere  be- 
neath is  languorous,  and  is  so  tinged  with  azure  that  what  artists 
call  the  middle  distance  partakes  also  of  that  hue,  while  the  hori- 
zon beyond  is  of  the  deepest  ultramarine.  Arable  lands  are  few 
and  limited  ;  with  but  slight  exceptions  the  prospect  is  a  broad 
rich  mass  of  grass  and  trees,  mantling  minor  hills  and  dales  within 
the  greater.  Such  is  the  Vale  of  Blackmoor.  —  Thomas  Hardy  : 
Tess  of  the  D*  Urbervilles. 

It  will  be  seen  from  all  these  extracts  that  care  for 
the  point  of  view  tends  to  clarify  the  impression  of  the 

The   principle    whole    by    the    observance    of    due    pro- 
of proportion.       p0rtjona      if  one  keep  the  point  of  view, 

he  will  be  the  more  likely  to  keep  his  perspective, 
more  likely  to  make  all  his  details  converge  upon  one 
point  or  heighten  one  impression.  This  is  exactly  the 
bidding  of  that  main  principle  of  all  good  composi- 
tion, the  principle  of  proportion.1  DweJl  upon  the 
details  that  heighten  the  one  desired  effect,  subdue 
those  that  are  merely  accessory,  suppress  those  that 
are  incongruous  :  this  is  the  principle  applied  to  de- 
scription. Ruskin's  description  of  St.  Mark's3  is  a 
study  in  contrast.  The  character  of  the  Venetian 
cathedral  is  accentuated  by  an  introductory  descrip- 
tion of  a  typical  English  cathedral.  But  since  this 
introductory  description  is  merely  accessory,  it  is  com- 
pressed within  narrow  limits.  Again,  the  beauty  and 
aspiration  inherent  in  the  design  and  the  ornament  of 
St.  Mark's  are  contrasted  with  the  sordid  brutality  of 


Carpenter  \  pp.  156,  179.      Genung^  207. 
8  Stones  of  Venice,  vol.  ii,  cap.  iv,  §  10.     Cf.  notes  thereon  in 
Genung  :  Handbook^  p.  36. 


KXX  INTRODUCTION'. 

the  people  that  now  live  in  its  shadow.  But  this  dark 
suggestion,  since  its  use  is  merely  to  heighten  the 
effect  of  brightness,  is  also  compressed  and  subdued. 
Sound  art,  whether  of  suggestion  or  of  representation, 
is  careful  not  to  elaborate  the  background  unduly. 

All  these  principles  apply  equally  to  a  kind  of  de- 
scription thus  far  unmentioned,  the  so-called  narrative 
Description       description.1     This  term,  though  it  seems 
by  narrative.       to  introduce  confusion,  defines  precisely 
enough  a  description  like  the  following : 

I  consulted  several  things  in  my  situation,  which  I  found  would 
be  proper  for  me  :  first,  health  and  fresh  water,  I  just  now  men- 
tioned ;  secondly,  shelter  from  the  heat  of  the  sun  ;  thirdly,  se- 
curity from  ravenous  creatures,  whether  man  or  beast  ;  fourthly, 
a  view  to  the  sea,  that  if  God  sent  any  ship  in  sight,  I  might  not 
lose  any  advantage  for  my  deliverance,  of  which  I  was  not  willing 
to  banish  all  my  expectation  yet. 

In  search  of  a  place  proper  for  this,  I  found  a  little  plain  on  the 
side  of  a  rising  hill,  whose  front  towards  this  little  plain  was  as 
steep  as  a  house-side,  so  that  nothing  could  come  down  upon  me 
from  the  top.  On  the  side  of  the  rock  there  was  a  hollow  place 
worn  a  little  way  in,  like  the  entrance  or  door  of  a  cave  ;  but 
there  was  not  really  any  cave,  or  way  into  the  rock  at  all. 

On  the  flat  of  the  green,  just  before  this  hollow  place,  I  re- 
solved to  pitch  my  tent.  This  plain  was  not  above  a  hundred 
yards  broad,  and  about  twice  as  long,  and  lay  like  a  green  before 
my  door ;  and,  at  the  end  of  it,  descended  irregularly  every  way 
down  into  the  low  ground  by  the  sea-side.  It  was  on  the  N.  N.  W. 
side  of  the  hill  ;  so  that  it  was  sheltered  from  the  heat  every  day, 
till  it  came  to  a  W.  and  by  S.  sun,  or  thereabouts,  which,  in  those 
countries,  is  near  the  setting. 

Before  I  set  up  my  tent,  I  drew  a  half-circle  before  the  hollow 
place,  which  took  in  about  ten  yards  in  its  semi-diameter,  from 
the  rock,  and  twenty  yards  in  its  diameter,  from  its  beginning  and 
ending. 

1  Fletcher  and  Carpenter \  p.  58. 


INTRODUCTION.  xxxl 

In  this  half-circle  I  pitched  two  rows  of  strong  stakes,  driving 
them  into  the  ground  till  they  stood  very  firm  like  piles,  the  big- 
gest end  being  out  of  the  ground  above  five  feet  and  a  half,  and 
sharpened  on  the  top.  The  two  rows  did  not  stand  above  six 
inches  from  one  another. 

Then  I  took  the  pieces  of  cable  which  I  had  cut  in  the  ship, 
and  laid  them  in  rows,  one  upon  another,  within  the  circle,  be- 
tween these  two  rows  of  stakes,  up  to  the  top,  placing  other  stakes 
in  the  inside,  leaning  against  them,  about  two  feet  and  a  half  high, 
like  a  spur  to  a  post  ;  and  this  fence  was  so  strong,  that  neither 
man  nor  beast  could  get  into  or  over  it.  This  cost  me  a  great 
deal  of  time  and  labour,  especially  to  cut  the  piles  in  the  woods, 
bring  them  to  the  place,  and  drive  them  into  the  earth. 

The  entrance  into  this  place  I  made  to  be  not  by  a  door,  but 
by  a  short  ladder  to  go  over  the  top  ;  which  ladder,  when  I  was 
in,  I  lifted  over  after  me  ;  and  so  I  was  completely  fenced  in  and 
fortified,  as  I  thought,  from  all  the  world,  and  consequently  slept 
secure  in  the  night,  which  otherwise  I  could  not  have  done  ; 
though,  as  it  appeared  afterwards,  there  was  no  need  of  all  this 
caution  from  the  enemies  that  I  apprehended  danger  from.— 
Defoe  :  Robinson  Crusoe. 

This  is  as  obviously  descriptive  as  its  method  is 
obviously  narrative.  Defoe  wishes,  indeed,  to  tell 
what  Crusoe  did,  but  he  wishes  mainly  to  make  a 
picture  of  the  hut,  and  he  does  the  latter  by  doing  the 
former.  It  makes  no  essential  difference  whether 
such  descriptions  occur  in  stories  or  not,  or  indeed 
whether  they  be  called  descriptions  or  stories. 
Here,  at  any  rate,  is  a  method  of  suggestion  by  enu- 
meration as  common  as  it  is  effective.  By  this 
method,  moreover,  the  difficulties  urged  by  Lessing ' 

1  See  p.  x,  and  note  the  following  from  Lessing's  sixteenth 
chapter : 

44  For  one  thing,  I  say  that  Homer  has  generally  but  a  single 


xxxii  INTRODUCTION. 

may  be  minimized.     Note   how  Defoe   resumes    hu, 
description  : 

I  have  already  described  my  habitation,  which  was  a  tent  under 
the  side  of  a  rock,  surrounded  with  a  strong  pale  of  posts  and 
cables ;  but  I  might  now  rather  call  it  a  wall,  for  I  raised  a  kind 
of  wall  up  against  it  of  turfs,  about  two  feet  thick  on  the  outside  ; 
and  after  some  time  (I  think  it  was  a  year  and  a  half)  I  raised 
rafters  from  it,  leaning  to  the  rock,  and  thatched  or  covered  it 
with  boughs  of  trees,  and  such  things  as  I  could  get,  to  keep  out 
the  rain,  which  I  found  at  some  times  of  the  year  very  violent. 

I  have  already  observed  how  I  brought  all  my  goods  into  this 
pale,  and  into  the  cave  which  I  had  made  behind  me.  But  I 
must  observe,  too,  that  at  first  this  was  a  confused  heap  of  goods, 
which,  as  they  lay  in  no  order,  so  they  took  up  all  my  place  ;  I 
had  no  room  to  turn  myself :  so  I  set  myself  to  enlarge  my  cave, 
and  work  farther  into  the  earth  ;  for  it  was  a  loose  sandy  rock, 
which  yielded  easily  to  the  labour  I  bestowed  on  it  ;  and  so,  when 
I  found  I  was  pretty  safe  as  to  beasts  of  prey,  I  worked  sideways, 
to  the  right  hand,  into  the  rock  ;  and  then,  turning  to  the  right 
again,  worked  quite  out,  and  made  me  a  door  to  come  out  on  the 
outside  of  my  pale  or  fortification.  This  gave  me  not  only  egress 
and  regress,  as  it  was  a  back  way  to  my  tent  and  storehouse,  but 
gave  me  room  to  store  my  goods. 

And  now  I  began  to  apply  myself  to  make  such  necessary  things 
as  I  found  I  most  wanted,  particularly  a  chair  and  a  table  ;  for 
without  these  I  was  not  able  to  enjoy  the  few  comforts  I  had  in 
the  world  ;  I  could  not  write  or  eat,  or  do  several  things,  with  so 
much  pleasure  without  a  table  :  so  I  went  to  "work. 

characteristic  ;  a  ship  is  for  him  now  the  black  ship,  now  the  hol- 
low ship,  now  the  swift  ship,  at  most  the  well-rowed  black  ship. 
Farther  than  this  he  does  not  enter  into  any  description  of  the  ship. 
But  of  the  sailing,  the  setting  out,  and  hauling  up  of  the  ship  he 
draws  a  detailed  picture  enough,  of  which,  if  the  artist  wished  to 
transfer  the  whole  of  it  to  his  canvas,  he  would  be  compelled  to 
make  five  or  six  different  paintings."— Beasley  and  Zimmern'* 
Translation. 


INTRODUCTION'.  xxxill 

This  is  essentially  the  method  of  the  newspaper 
"  sketch,"  and  of  works  like  Defoe's  Storm  and  Jour- 
nal of  the  Plague  Year.1  Compare  also  the  following 
instances  : 

Or  again,  if  it  rained,  and  Paris  through  the  studio  window 
loomed  lead-colored,  with  its  shiny  slate  roofs  under  skies  that 
were  ashen  and  sober,  and  the  wild  west  wind  made  woeful 
music  among  the  chimney-pots,  and  little  gray  waves  ran  up 
the  river  the  wrong  way,  and  the  Morgue  looked  chill  and  dark 
and  wet,  and  almost  uninviting  (even  to  three  healthy-minded 
young  Britons),  they  would  resolve  to  dine  and  spend  a  happy 
evening  at  home. 

Little  Billee,  taking  with  him  three  francs  (or  even  four),  would 
dive  into  back  streets  and  buy  a  yard  or  so  of  crusty  new  bread, 
well  burned  on  the  flat  side,  a  fillet  of  beef,  a  litre  of  wine,  pota- 
toes and  onions,  butter,  a  little  cylindrical  cheese  called  "bondon 
de  Neufchatel,"  tender  curly  lettuce,  with  chervil,  parsley,  spring 
onions,  and  other  fine  herbs,  and  a  pod  of  garlic,  which  would  be 
rubbed  on  a  crust  of  bread  to  flavor  things  with. 

Taffy  would  lay  the  cloth  Englishwise,  and  also  make  the  salad, 
for  which,  like  everybody  else  I  ever  met,  he  had  a  special  receipt 
of  his  own  (putting  in  the  oil  first  and  the  vinegar  afterward)  ;  and 
indeed  his  salads  were  quite  as  good  as  everybody  else's. 

The  Laird,  bending  over  the  stove,  would  cook  the  onions  and 
beef  into  a  savory  Scotch  mess  so  cunningly  that  you  could  not 
v  taste  the  beef  for  the  onions — nor  always  the  onions  for  the 
garlic  ! 

And  they  would  dine  far  better  than  at  le  Pere  Trin's,  far  bet- 
ter than  at  the  English  restaurant  in  the  Rue  de  la  Madeleine — 
better  than  anywhere  else  on  earth  ! 

And  after  dinner,  what  coffee,  roasted  and  ground  on  the  spot, 
what  pipes  and  cigarettes  of  "caporal,"  by  the  light  of  the  three 

1  It  is  also  the  method  of  Stevenson's  Across  the  Plains,  and 
of  the  description  of  storm  in  the  twenty-sixth  chapter  of  David 
Copperfald. 


xxxiv  INTRODUCTION. 

shaded  lamps,  while  the  rain  beat  against  the  big  north  window, 
and  the  wind  went  howling  round  the  quaint  old  mediaeval  tower 
at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Vieille  des  Mauvais  Ladres  (the  old 
street  of  the  bad  lepers)  and  the  damp  logs  hissed  and  crackled  in 
the  stove  !— Du  Maurier  :  Trilby. 


Of  course  I  was  up  the  very  next  morning  before  the  October 
sunrise,  and  away  through  the  wild  and  the  woodland  toward  the 
Bagworthy  water,  at  the  foot  of  the  long  cascade.  The  rising  of 
the  sun  was  noble  in  the  cold  and  warmth  of  it ;  peeping  down 
the  spread  of  light,  he  raised  his  shoulder  heavily  over  the  edge  of 
gray  mountain  and  wavering  length  of  upland.  Beneath  his  gaze 
the  dew-fogs  dipped,  and  crept  to  the  hollow  places ;  then  stole 
away  in  line  and  column,  holding  skirts,  and  clinging  subtly  at 
the  sheltering  corners,  where  rock  hung  over  grass-land  ;  while  the 
brave  lines  of  the  hills  came  forth,  one  beyond  other  gliding. 

Then  the  woods  arose  in  folds,  like  drapery  of  awakened  moun- 
tains, stately  with  a  depth  of  awe,  and  memory  of  the  tempests. 
Autumn's  mellow  hand  was  on  them,  as  they  owned  already, 
touched  with  gold,  and  red,  and  olive  ;  and  their  joy  toward  the 
sun  was  less  to  a  bridegroom  than  a  father. 

Yet  before  the  floating  impress  of  the  woods  could  clear  itself, 
suddenly  the  gladsome  light  leaped  over  hill  and  valley,  casting 
amber,  blue,  and  purple,  and  a  tint  of  rich  red  rose,  according  to 
the  scene  they  lit  on,  and  the  curtain  flung  around  ;  yet  all  alike 
dispelling  fear  and  the  cloven  hoof  of  darkness,  all  on  the  wings 
of  hope  advancing  and  proclaiming  that  4<  God  is  here  !"  Then 
life  and  joy  sprang  reassured  from  every  crouching  hollow  ;  every 
flower,  and  bud,  and  bird  had  a  fluttering  sense  of  them  ;  and  all 
the  flashing  of  God's  gaze  merged  into  soft  beneficence.— -Black- 
more  :  Lorna  Doone. 

The  evening  came  as  they  passed  along  a  steep  white  road  with 
many  windings  among  the  pines,  and  it  was  night  when  they 
reached  the  temple,  the  lights  of  which  shone  out  upon  them  paus- 
ing before  the  sacred  enclosure,  while  Marius  became  alive  to  a 
singular  purity  in  the  air.  A  rippling  of  water  about  the  place 


xxxv 

was  the  only  thing  audible,  as  they  wailed  till  two  priestty  figures, 
speaking  Greek  to  one  another,  admitted  them  into  a  large  white- 
walled  and  clearly  lighted  guest-chamber,  in  which,  while  he  par- 
took of  a  simple  but  wholesomely  prepared  supper,  Marius  still 
seemed  to  feel  pleasantly  the  height  they  had  attained  to  Among 
the  hills. — Pater  :  Marius  the  Epicurean. 

Thus  far  we  have  spoken  only  of  description  bjf 
enumeration.     There   is  a  pronounced  modern   ten- 
dency in  both  painting  and  literature  t6 

Description 

without  enu-      obtain   a   unified   effect,    riot   by  there 

meration.  .  «         •»        *  *  i 

suj)oniLnaliQn  of  details,  but  by.ajctual 
suppression  of  as  many  details  as  possible.  Carried 
to  the  extreme,  this  method  is  called  impressiohisrrt> 
and  has  obtained  only  a  partial  and  doubtful  recogni- 
tion. But  in  description,  at  any  rate,  this  reaction 
embodies  a  principle  that  appeals  strongly  to  most 
readers.  "  No  human  being,*'  says  Stevenson,  "  ever 
spoke  of  scenery  for  above  two  minutes  at  a  time, 
which  makes  one  suspect  we  hear  too  much  of  it  in 
literature."  *  "  But  methinks  I  am  describing,"  writes 
Gray  to  West,1  after  reporting  a  great  ecclesiastical 
function,  "  'tis  an  ill  habit,  but  this,  like  everything 
else,  will  wear  off." 

It  is  certain,  moreover,  that  the  limits  of  effective* 
ness   in   enumerative    description    are    stricter    thai* 

writers  of  the  older  fashion,  and  those 

Lemaitre      on 

enumerative  dc-  who   follow   them    to-day,    seem    thor« 

scription.  .  . 

oughly  to  appreciate.  On  this  pomlj 
M.  Jules  Lemaitre  has  said,  perhaps,  the  last  word  ;• 

,          — — , A 

1  Memories  and  Portraits  :   Talk  and  Talkers^ 
'Rome,  April  16,  N.  S.,   1740. 


XXX  vi  INTRODUCTION. 

Et  puis,  dans  cette  idylle  neurasthenique  d'  Une  Page  a"  amour,1 
il  y  a  une  chose  que  M.  Samson2  ne  pouvait  transporter  dans  sa 
piece  :  il  y  a  Paris  ;  il  y  a  le  panorama  de  la  grande  ville  vue  des 
hauteurs  du  TVocadero,  a  toutes  les  heures  du  jour,  par  toutes  les 
saisons  et  par  tous  les  ciels.  He'lene  Grandchamp  est  courageuse, 
incertaine  ou  de'faillante,  selon  la  fa9on  dont  est  eclaire  le  dome 
des  Invalides,  suivant  que  la  fa$ade  de  1'Ecole  Militaire  est  gris 
sale  ou  gris-perle,  suivant  qu'a  1'horizon  le  Pantheon  est  mauve  ou 
parait  en  pain  d'epice,  et  suivant  que  la  Seine  est  couleur  d'eme- 
raude,  couleur  de  marne  ou  couleur  d'etain.  Ces  descriptions, 
dont  la  moindre  deborde  sur  dix  pages  d'imprime,  sont  restees 
fameuses.  On  les  admire  beaucoup,  sans  ton  jours  les  avoir  lues. 
Je  crois  que  ce  qu'on  admire  au  fond,  c'est  1'etrange  effort  dont 
elles  te'moignent. 

£'a  etc  Tune  des  plus  grossieres  erreurs  litteraires  de  ce 
temps,  de  confondje  remuneration  des  parties  avec  la  peinture, 
de  croire  que  la  juxtaposition  interminable  de  details,  meme 
pittoresques,  peut  finalement  "former  tableau,"  nous  rendre 
sensibles  les  vastes  spectacles  de  1'univers  physique.  En 
realite,  une  description  ecrite  ne  se  compose  et  ne  s'ordonne  dans 
notre  esprit  que  si  Timpression  des  premiers  traits  dont  elle  est 
formee  se  prolonge  et  retentit  assez  en  nous  pour  que  nous  les 
puissions  rejoindre  aisement  a  ceux  qui  la  completent  et  la  ter- 
minent.  Bref,  un  morceau  descriptif  ne  vaut  que  si  nous  pouvons 
en  retenir  et  en  embrasser  a  la  fois  tous  les  details.  II  faut  que 
ces  details  coexistent  tous  dans  notre  memoire,  comme  ceux  d'une 
toile  peinte  coexistent  sous  notre  regard.  Cela  devient  presque 
impossible,  quand  la  description  d'un  objet  determine'  comporte 
un  quart  d'heure  de  lecture.  Plus  elle  s'allonge,  et  plus  elle 
s'obscurcit.  Les  traits  particuliers  s'effacent  et  s'oublient  a 
mesure  qu'ils  nous  sont  presentes  ;  et  c'est  ici  qu'on  peut  dire  que 
Jes  arbres  empechent  de  voir  le  foret.  Toute  description  qui  de- 
passe  cinquante  lignes  cesse  d'etre  clairement  perceptible  a  un 
esprit  de  vigueur  moyenne.  On  n'a  plus  alors  qu'une  serie  de 
peinturcs  partielles  dont  la  succession  fatigue  et  accable.— ; Jules 

1  fcmile  Zola  :  Une  Page  d' Amour. 

*  The  compiler  of  a  dramatic  version  of  Zola's  story. 


INTRODUCTION.  xxxvii 

Lemaitre :    Impressions    de     Thddtre^    Sme    se'rie  ;     Une    Page 
d*  Amour. 

Moreover,  since  most  description,  as  was   said  at 

the  beginning,  is  merely  accessory,  it  is  well  to  learn 

how  much  can  be  done  by  rapid  sug- 

Examples    of 

tfon"d  sugg<?s~      gestion.     Obviously  a  passing   glimpse 
of  the  main  aspect  is  often  all  that  is 
desired.1 

Inch  Keith  is  nothing  more  than  a  rock  covered  with  a  thin 
layer  of  earth,  not  wholly  bare  of  grass,  and  very  fertile  of 
thistles.  A  small  herd  of  cows  grazes  annually  upon  it  in  the 
summer.  It  seems  never  to  have  afforded  to  man  or  beast  a  per- 
manent habitation. — Johnson  :  Journey  to  the  Western  Islands. 

An  ivory-faced  and  silvery-haired  old  woman  opened  the  door. 
She  had  an  evil  face,  smoothed  by  hypocrisy,  but  her  manners 
were  excellent. — Stevenson  :  Jekyll  and  Hyde. 

Two  other  gentlemen  had  come  out  with  him.  One  was  a  low- 
spirited  gentleman  of  middle  age,  of  a  meagre  habit,  and  a  dis- 
consolate face  ;  who  kept  his  hands  continually  in  the  pockets  of 
his  scanty  pepper-and-salt  trousers,  very  large  and  dog's-eared 
from  that  custom  ;  and  was  not  particularly  well  brushed  or 
washed.  The  other,  a  full-sized,  sleek,  well-conditioned  gentle- 
man, in  a  blue  coat  with  bright  buttons,  and  a  white  cravat.  This 
gentleman  had  a  very  red  face,  as  if  an  undue  proportion  of  the 
blood  in  his  body  were  squeezed  up  into  his  head  ;  which  perhaps 
accounted  for  his  having  also  the  appearance  of  being  rather  cold 
about  the  heart. — Dickens  :  The  Chimes. 

Doctor  Pusey  (who  also  never  spoke  to  me)  was  not  in  the  least 
a  picturesque  or  tremendous  figure,  but  only  a  sickly  and  rather 
ill  put  together  English  clerical  gentleman,  who  never  looked  one 
in  the  face,  or  appeared  aware  of  the  state  of  the  weather. 

1  Genung,  p.  337. 


xxxviii  INTRODUCTION. 

My  own  tutor  was  a  dark-eyed,  animated,  pleasant,  but  not  in 
the  least  impressive  person,  who  walked  with  an  unconscious  air 
of  assumption,  noticeable  by  us  juniors  not  to  his  advantage. 
Kynaston  was  ludicrously  like  a  fat  school-boy.  Hussey,  grim 
and  brown,  as  I  said,  somewhat  lank,  incapable  of  jest,  equally 
incapable  of  enthusiasm.— Ruskin  :  Praterita,  xi. 

Such  is  the  poor  moorland  tract  of  country ;  Zorndorf  the 
centre  of  it— where  the  battle  is  likely  to  be  :  Zorndorf  and 
environs,  a  bare  quasi-island  among  these  woods  ;  extensive  bald 
crown  of  the  landscape,  girt  with  a  frizzle  of  fir  woods  all  round.  — 
Carlyle  ;  Frederick  the  Great. 

A  stout  broad  gentleman  of  sixty,  perpendicular  in  attitude, 
rather  showily  dressed,  and  of  gracious,  ingenious  and  slightly 
elaborate  manners. — Carlyle  :  Life  of  John  Sterling. 

His  (Walpole's)  new  gallery  is  all  gothicism,  and  gold,  and  crim- 
son, and  looking-glass. — Gray  to  Thomas  Wharton  (Letter  lix). 

Sometimes  the  rapid  suggestion  is  achieved  by  a 
single  detail,  as  of  touch : 

Whereupon,  he  turned  round  again,  threw  himself  on  his  back 
at  full  length,  and  feeling  the  sheets  cool,  smooth,  and  refreshing, 
folded  his  arms,  and  slept  instantaneously. — Landor  :  Pentameron. 

or  of  sound : 

Serene  and  beautiful  are  our  autumnal  days  in  Thessaly.  We 
have  many  woods  about  us,  and  many  woodland  sounds  among 
them. — Landor  :  Pericles  and  Aspasia. 

or  of  colour : 

He  could  just  discern  the  cypresses  of  the  old  school  garden, 
like  two  black  lines  down  the  yellow  walls.— Pate.r  :  Jlfaritfs  thi 
Epicurean. 


INTRODUCTION.  XXXIX 

The  road,  next  day,  passed  below  a  town  not  less  primitive,  it 
might  seem,  than  its  rocky  perch — white  rocks  that  had  long  been 
glistening  before  him  in  the  distance. — Ibid. 

or  of  light : 

He  rode  towards  Tibur,  under  the  early  sunshine  ;  the  marble  of 
its  villas  glistening  all  the  way  before  him  on  the  hillside. — Ibid. 

Suggestion  by  a  single  detail  presented  by  a  single 
adjective  has  been  called  epithet  description.1  This 
The  Homeric  ^s  common  in  Homer.*  In  modern 
epithet.  literature  it  hardly  occurs,  outside  of 

humourous  writing,  except  in  Carlyle.  Indeed,  the 
.stock-epithet  is  hardly  intended  as  descriptive.  It  is 
simply  a  more  vivid  means  of  reference.  Carlyle's 
"  lion  Mirabeau  "  and  "  sea-green  Robespierre  "  have, 
it  is  true,  a  certain  picturesque  force,  but  their  office 
is  rather  to  identify  a  character  than  to  suggest  him. 
For  ordinary  use  the  method  becomes  too  easily  tire- 
some to  be  valuable. 

On  the  other  hand,  when  the  single  adjective  is  not 
a  stock  epithet,  but  one  apt  enough  to  suggest  as  much 
of  the  main  aspect  as  is  desired  for  a  particular  pur- 
pose, the  method  by  epithets  has  the  advantage  of 
conciseness.  In  this  form  it  is  not  uncommon  among 
historians : 

Here  they  embarked  again,  steering  southward  over  the  sunny 
waters,  in  the  stillness  and  solitude  of  the  leafy  hills,  till  they 
came  to  the  outlet,  and  glided  down  tfce  peaceful  current,  in  the 
shade  of  the  tall  forests  that  overarched  \\..—Parkman  :  Mont- 
calm  and  Wolfe. 

1  See  Fletcher  and  Carpenter,  p.  50. 

2  Cf.  t4  the  far-darting  Apollo,"  "  the  white-armed  Hera,"  etc 


rl  INTRODUCTION. 

He  admired  the  awful  majesty  of  the  Capitol,  the  vast  extent 
of  the  baths  of  Caracalla  and  Diocletian,  the  severe  simplicity  of 
the  Pantheon,  the  massy  greatness  of  the  amphitheatre  of  Titus, 
the  elegant  architecture  of  the  theatre  of  Pompey  and  the  Temple 
of  Peace,  and,  above  all,  the  stately  structure  of  the  Forum  and 
column  of  Trajan.  —  Gibbon  :  The  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman 
Empire.  ! 

But  perhaps  the  most  vivid  rapid  suggestion  is  that 

which  gives,  with  little,  if  any,  accessory  detail,  the 

Description      effect  upon  the  beholder  or  the  actors. 

This  is  the  dramatic  method.      It  has 

been  called,  somewhat  loosely,  description  by  effect.2 

In   its   simplest  form   it   occurs   in   many   mediocre 

descriptions  : 

Towards  evening  we  crossed,  by  a  bridge,  the  river  which  makes 

the  celebrated  Fall  of  Fiers.     The  country  at  the  bridge  strikes 

the   imagination  with   all  the   gloom  and  grandeur  of  Siberian 

solitude.     The  way  makes  a  flexure,  and  the  mountains,  covered 

with  trees,  rise  at  once  on  the  left  hand  and  in  the  front.     We 

desired  our  guides  to  show  us  the  fall,  and,  dismounting,  'dam- 

el   over  very  rugged  crags,    till  I  began   to   wish  that   our 

sity  might  have  been  gratified  with  less  trouble  and  danger. 

i  came  at  last  to  a  place  where  we  could  overlook  the  river  and 

«r  a  channel  torn,  as  it  seems,  through  black  piles  of  stone,  by 

i  the  stream  is  obstructed  and  broken,  till  it  comes  to  a  very 

leep  descent,  of  such  dreadful  depth,   that  we  were  naturally 

to   the 


Of  the  hills  many  may  be  called,  with  Homer's  Ida,  ••  abun- 
spnngs      but  few  can   deserve   the   epithet  which   he 
^^  They  exhibit 

Hi  °  th'SC'  h°WeVer'  Wil1  serve  to  sho-  ^w  easily 
lapse  into  the  merely  conventional 


INTRODUCTION.  xli 

very  little  variety  ;  being  almost  wholly  covered  with  dark  heath, 
and  even  that  seems  to  be  checked  in  its  growth.  What  is  not 
heath  is  nakedness,  a  little  diversified  by  now  and  then  a  stream 
!  rushing  down  the  steep.  An  eye  accustomed  to  flowery  pastures 
and  waving  harvests  is  astonished  and  repelled  by  this  wide  extent 
of  hopeless  sterility.  The  appearance  is  that  of  matter  incapable 
of  form  or  usefulness,  dismissed  by  nature  from  her  care,  and  dis- 
inherited of  her  favours,  left  in  its  original  elemental  state,  or  quick- 
ened only  with  one  sullen  power  of  useless  vegetation. — Ibid. 

Much  more  vivid  are  the  following  : 

And    a  breezy,   goose-skinned,    blue-nosed,    red-eyed,     stony-" 
toed,  tooth-chattering  place  it  was  to  wait  in  in  the  winter  time,  as  . 
Toby  Veck  well  knew. — Dickens  :    The  Chimes. 

I  was  coming  home  from  some  place  at  the  end  of  the  world, 
about  three  o'clock  of  a  black  winter  morning,  and  my  way  lay 
through  a  part  of  town  where  there  was  literally  nothing  to  be 
seen  but  lamps.  Street  after  street,  and  all  the  folks  asleep — 
street  after  street,  all  lighted  up  as  if  for  a  procession  and  all  as 
empty  as  a  church — till  at  last  I  got  into  that  state  of  mind  when 
a  man  listens  and  listens  and  begins  to  long  for  the  sight  of  a 
policeman.  All  at  once,  I  saw  two  figures  :  one  a  little  man  who 
was  stumping  along  eastward  at  a  good  walk,  and  the  other  a  girl 
of  may  be  eight  or  ten  who  was  running  as  hard  as  she  was  able 
down  a  cross  street.  Well,  sir,  the  two  ran  into  one  another 
naturally  enough  at  the  corner ;  and  then  came  the  horrible  part 
of  the  thing ;  for  the  man  trampled  calmly  over  the  child's  body 
and  left  her  screaming  on  the  ground.  It  sounds  nothing  to  hear, 
but  it  was  hellish  to  see.  It  wasn't  like  a  man  ;  it  was  like  some 
damned  Juggernaut.  I  gave  a  view  halloa,  took  to  my  heels,  col- 
lared my  gentleman,  and  brought  him  back  to  where  there  was 
already  quite  a  group  about  the  screaming  child.  He  was  per- 
fectly cool  and  made  no  resistance,  but  gave  me  one  look,  so  ugly 
that  it  brought  out  the  sweat  on  me  like  running.  The  people 
who  had  turned  out  were  the  girl's  own  family  ;  and  pretty  soon, 
the  doctor,  for  whom  she  had  been  sent,  put  in  an  appearance 


xlii 


INTRODUCTION. 


Well,  the  child  was  not  much  the  worse,  more  frightened,  accord 
ing  to  the  Sawbones  ;  and  there  you  might  have  supposed  would 
be  an  end  to  it.  But  there  was  one  curious  circumstance.  I  had 
taken  a  loathing  to  my  gentleman  at  first  sight.  So  had  the 
hild's  family,  which  was  only  natural.  But  the  doctor's  case  was 
what  struck  me.  He  was  the  usual  cut-and-dry  apothecary,  of  no 
particular  age  and  color,  with  a  strong  Edinburgh  accent,  and 
about  as  emotional  as  a  bagpipe.  Well,  sir,  he  was  like  the  rest 
us  ;  every  time  he  looked  at  my  prisoner  I  saw  that  Sawbones 
turn  sick  and  white  with  the  desire  to  kill  him.i-Stwnse*  • 
Jekyll  and  Hyde. 

And  so,  in  a  sorry  plight,  I  came  to  an  opening  in  the  bushes, 
a  great  black  pool  lay  in  front  of  me,  whitened  with  snow 
(as  I  thought)  at  the  sides,  till  I  saw  it  was  only  foam-froth. 

iough   I  could  swim  with  great  ease  and  comfort,  and 
th  of  water,  when  I  could  fairly  come  to  it   yet  I 


- 


before  my  eyes  which 

«mu.,ly  ^u^d  A 

of  despair 
^ 


udbbed  away> 

"°ne  ;  but 


beat 
a  dimness  cam° 


a  da^ness 


INTRODUCTION.  xliii 

not  suffer  me  to  think  upon  the  words  ;  and  my  chief  wish  was  to 
have  the  thing  begin  and  be  done  with  it. — Stevenson:   Kidnapped. 

The  singers  were  (as  usual)  deplorable,  but  there  was  one  girl 
(she  called  herself  the  Niccolina)  with  little  voice  and  less  beauty  ; 
but  with  the  utmost  justness  of  ear,  the  strongest  expression  of 
countenance,  the  most  speaking  eyes,  the  greatest  vivac;ty  and 
variety  of  gesture.  Her  first  appearance  instantly  fixed  their 
attention  ;  the  tumult  sunk  at  once,  or  if  any  murmur  rose,  it  was 
hushed  by  a  general  cry  for  silence.  Her  first  air  ravished  every, 
body  ;  they  forgot  their  prejudices,  they  forgot  that  they  d;d  not 
understand  a  word  of  the  language  ;  they  entered  into  all  the 
humour  of  the  part,  made  her  repeat  all  her  songs,  and  continued 
their  transports,  their  laughter,  and  applause  to  the  end  of  the 
piece. — Gray  to  Count  Algarotti^  Cambridge ;  September  9,  1763. 

I  had  seen  also  for  the  third  time,  by  the  Chartreuse  torrent,  the 
most  wonderful  of  all  Alpine  birds — a  grey,  fluttering  stealthy 
creature,  about  the  size  of  a  sparrow,  but  of  colder  grey,  and 
more  graceful,  which  haunts  the  sides  of  the  fiercest  torrents. 
There  is  something  more  strange  in  it  than  in  the  sea-gull— that 
seems  a  powerful  creature  ;  and  the  power  of  the  sea,  not  of  a 
kind  so  adverse,  so  hopelessly  destructive  ;  but  this  small  creature, 
silent,  tender  and  light,  almost  like  a  moth  in  its  low  and  irregular 
flight, — almost  touching  with  its  wings  the  crests  of  waves  that 
would  overthrow  a  granite  wall,  and  haunting  the  hollows  of  the 
black,  cold,  heibless  rocks  that  are  continually  shaken  by  their 
spray,  has  perhaps  the  nearest  approach  to  the  look  of  a  spiritual 
existence  I  know  In  animal  life. — Ruskin  :  Prceterita,  xi. 

Suggestion  by  effect1  has  its  chief  value  in  portraits. 
In  descriptions  of  scenery  it  involves  what  Ruskin 

1  The  method  by  effects  seems  to  M.  Brunetiere  peculiarly 
artistic  :  "  I)  ne  me  reste  plus  qu'a  louer  dans  V £vangtliste  les 
qualite's  ordinaires  de  M.  Daudet,  mais  plus  saines,  comme  je  i'ai 
deji  dit,  plus  libre  de  toute  preoccupation  d'e'cole.  Dans  les 
meilleures  pages  de  V £vang£listtt  la  sobriete'  de  la  description  esf 


INTRODUCTION. 

calls  the  pathetic  fallacy;  and  by  becoming  unduly 
emotional  may  become  untrue.  How  effective  it  may 

The  "pathetic  be»  however,  not  only  in  description  of 
fallacy.^  places,  but   even   in   detailed   descrip- 

tion of  places  is  abundantly  shown  in  Poe's  Fall  of  the 
House  of  Usher. 

More  minute  discrimination  of  descriptive  methods 
would  be  but  confusing.      Indeed,   of  the  methods 

The  choice  of  already  discussed,  none  is  to  be  con- 
sidered as  essentially  independent ;  each 
combines  freely  with  the  others.  And  whatever  the 
method  or  combination  of  methods,  the  force  of  any 
description  depends,  of  course,  not  only  on  the  power 
to  seize  the  most  active  source  of  suggestion,  but  quite 
as  much  on  the  power  to  find  for  it  the  apt  word.  It 
would  be  gratuitous  to  say  over  again  for  descriptive 
diction  what  is  always  true  of  diction  in  general.  But 
it  may  be  worth  while  to  consider  some  common  mis 
conceptions,  and  to  apply  briefly  one  or  two  funda- 
mental maxims. 

It  is  a  common  error,  at  least  among  students,  to 
suppose  that  excellence  in  description  is  measured  by 

An  error  aa  to  the    fervour    of    imaginative   language 
and  the  exaggeration  of  figure.      The 

dcvenue,  comme  chez  les  vrais  maftres,  un  element  de  leur  charm  e 
et  de  leur  beaute.  Au  lieu  de  peindre  par  1'accumulation  des 
details,  et  la  nouveaute  des  mots,  etleurs 'rapprochements  imprevus, 
Stst  r  impression  de  la  figure  ou  du  pay  sage  sur  r  esprit  que  M. 
Daudet  de*gage  et  resume  en  quatres  lignes. "— Brunette  :  Le 
Roman  Naturaliste,  p.  390. 

1  Ruskin  :  Modern  Painters,  iii.     Cf.  also,  Fletcher  and  Carte* 
*"•  P-  54- 


INTRODUCTION.  xlv 

world  is  weary  of  a  style  tending  too  readily  to  the 
grandiose  and  even  the  bombastic.  Language  is  not 
to  be  tortured  by  the  craze  for  extraordinary  adjec- 
tives. Sensationalism,  moreover,  is  as  futile  as  it  is 
The  sens  a-  ludicrous,  and  this  because  it  almost 

always  marks  weakness.  Yet  the  plea  for 
sanity  should  not  ignore  the  fact  that  the  struggle  for  the 
startling  and  the  bizarre  indicates  a  wholesome  discon- 
tent with  the  trite  and  the  commonplace.  In  ordinary 
intercourse  things  may  be  lovely  or  nice  or  quaint  when 
they  are  not  awful  or  splendid ;  but  nobody  pretends 
that  these  adjectives  are  descriptive.  They  are  used  to 

avoid   the  trouble  of  description.      In 

The  trite. 

the  matter  of  figures,  moreover,  there  is 
little  to  choose  between  the  sensational  and  tire  trite. 
The  true  concern  of  the  artist  is  exhibited  sternly  by 
Maupassant  : 

Ayant,  en  outre,  pose  cette  verite  qu'il  n'y  a  pas,  de  par  le 
monde  entier,  deux  grains  de  sable,  deux  mouches,  deux  mains  ou 
deux  nez  absolument  pareils,  il  me  forcait  a  exprimer,  en  quelques 
phrases,  un  etre  ou  un  objet  de  maniere  a  le  particulariser  nette- 

nt^  a  le  distinguer  de  tous  les  autres  etres  ou  de  tous  les  autres 
objets  de  meme  race  ou  de  meme  espece. 

"  Quand  vous  passez,  me  disait-il,  devant  un  epicier  assis  sur  sa 
porte,  devant  un  concierge  qui  fume  sa  pipe,  devant  une  station 
de  nacres,  montrez-moi  cet  epicier  et  ce  concierge,  leur  pose,  toute 
leur  apparence  physique  contenant  aussi,  indiquee  par  1'adresse 
de  1'image,  toute  leur  nature  morale,  de  fa9on  a  ce  que  je  ne  les 
confonde  avec  aucun  autre  epicier  ou  avec  aucun  autre  concierge, 
et  faites-moi  voir,  par  un  seul  mot,  en  quoi  un  cheval  de  fiacre  ne 
ressemble  pas  aux  cinquante  autres  qui  le  suivent  et  le  pre- 
cedent."— Guy  de  Maupassant:  Pierre  et  Jean^  Avant-propos.* 

1  Cited  by  Fletcher  and  Carpenter^  p.  6. 


*1  vi  IN  TROD  UCTION. 

Particularisernettement—\\.  is  the  error  of  indolence 
to  suppose  that  such  a  habit  robs  expression  of  its 
glow  and  colour. 

A  little  yellow  bird  still  continues  to  make  a  sibilous  shivering 
noise  in  the  tops  of  tall  woods.—  Gilbert  White  :  Natural  History 
of  Selborne. 

It  was  one  of  those  mornings  such  as  come  only  in  the  early 
autumn.  The  air  was  crisp,  sonorous,  and  still.—  A.  S.  Hardv  • 
Passe  Rose. 

It  remained  to  choose  a  beast  of  burden.     Now  a  horse  is  a  fine 

among  animals,  flighty,  timid,  delicate  in  eating,   of  tender 

;  he  ls  too  valuable  and  too  restive  to  be  left  alone,  so  that 

are  chained  to  your  brute  as  to  a  fellow  galley  slave  ;  a  dan- 

gerous  road  put,  him  out  of  hi,  wits  .  in  shor*  h/g 

1      *  "'  and  ^^  thirty'fold  t0  the  tr°ubles 


Of  figures  be  it  said  only  that  they  are  subject  to 
the  same  law     Equally  foolish  are  they  that  would 

''1.  c8ub-  i!spense  with  them  and  they  that  ^ 

«  «">-    hem  at  random.     "  The  horse  is  a  fine 


INTRODUCTION.  xlvii 

Against  the  abuse  of  figures,  however,  it  is  often 

wise  to  recommend  the  study  of  a  style  like  Defoe's. 

The  necessity   Defoe  has  hardly  any  figures,  because 

of  the  concrete.     he    js   unemotional.       But    without    them 

he  secures  effects  that  are  always  clear  and  often 
vivid  by  sheer  abundance  of  concrete  detail.  This  is 
the  first  business  of  descriptive  dictron — with  or  with- 
out figures,  toj^ejtkoiiJJh^j^^  Concreteness  is^ 
the  force  of  Defoe,  the  force  of  Stevenson,  the  force 
of  all  writers  between  them  who  have  succeeded  in 
giving  to  their  suggestions  a  moving  power.  Cow- 
per's  contentment  is  moving  so  soon  as  it  speaks 
through  tangible  objects : 

They  think  a  fine  estate,  a  large  conservatory,  a  hothouse  rich 
as  a  West  Indian  garden,  things  of  consequence  ;  visit  them  with 
pleasure,  and  muse  upon  them  with  ten  times  more.  I  am  pleased 
with  a  frame  of  four  lights,  doubtful  whether  the  few  pines  it 
contains  will  ever  be  worth  a  farthing  ;  amuse  myself  with  a 
greenhouse  which  Lord  Bute's  gardener  could  take  upon  his  back 
and  walk  away  with  ;  and  when  I  have  paid  it  the  accustomed 
visit,  and  watered  it,  and  given  it  air,  I  say  to  myself — "  This  is 
not  mine,  'tis  a  plaything  lent  me  for  the  present ;  I  must  leave  it 
soon." — Cowper  to  Newton^  May  3,  1780. 

If  anyone  doubts  that  the  formula  for  description  is 
simply  concreteness  plus  aptness,  let  him  study 
minutely  the  prologue  to  the  "Canterbury  Tales." 

Finally,  be  it  said  that  descriptive  power  is  not 
confined  to  one  or  two  parts  of  speech.:  It  was  said 
by  the  reviewer  of  certain  recent  short  stories  that 
they  resembled  "  an  exercise  in  composition  for  the 
abolition  of  the  verb."  :  The  same  charge  may  be 

i Nation,   57  :  452. 


*Iv"'  INTRODUCTION. 

brought  against  many  pieces  more  purely  descriptive 
than  these.     Now  if  the  verb  is  the  most  essential 
Th«   import-  part  of  speech  in  narrative,  it  is  none 
'•*•*•   the  less  most  valuable   in  description. 
To  confine  one's  elaboration,  then,  to  adjectives  and 
nouns,  is  not  only  to  burden  one's  sentences,  but  also 
to  ignore  an  excellent  means  of  conciseness  in  sug- 
gestion.    Let  all  the  main  words  in  the  sentence  tell  • 
let  the  verb  be  as  full  of  suggestion  as  the  noun  and 
the  adject.ve,  and  the  description  is  spared  many  an 
overburdened  phrase  and  lagging  clause. 

A  '"ge-headed.  dwarfish  individual,  of  smoke-bleared  aspect 
™  ghiS  WUe  UPS'  f° 

en- and  give  up 


The  choice  of  details,  their  number,  the  method  by 

they  are  presented,  the  choice  of  words,-these 

four  headings  will  be  found  convenient,  alike  for  the 

cons.deration  of  the  selections  in  this  volume  and  for 

cnticism  of  the  student's  own  work. 

~ • 

lCf.  pp.  xi,  xviii-xix,  xxxiv. 


LIST  OF  REFERENCES   IN  THE 
INTRODUCTION. 


Brewster,  William  Tenney,  Specimens  of  Narration  (New  York, 
Henry  Holt  &  Company). 

Brunetiere,  Ferdinand,  Le  Roman  Naturaliste. 

Carpenter,  G.  ft.,1  Exercises  in  Rhetoric  and  English  Composi- 
tion (New  York  and  London,  Macmillan  &  Company).  * 

Fletcher  and  Carpenter,  Theme- Writing,  by  J.  B.  Fletcher  and 
G.  R.  Carpenter  (Boston,  Allyn  &  Bacon). 

Genung,  John  F.tl  The  Practical  Elements  of  Rhetoric  (Boston, 
Ginn  &  Company)  :  A  Handbook  of  Rhetorical  Analysis 
(ibid.). 

Lemaitre,  Jules,  Impressions  de  Theatre,  8me  serie. 

Lessing,  Gotthold  Ephraim,  Laokoon. 

Maupassant,  Guy  de,  Pierre  et  Jean  (avant-propos). 

Phelps,  William  Lyon,  The  Beginning  of  the  English  Romantic 
Movement  (Boston,  Ginn  &  Company). 

Ruskin,  John,  The  Stones  of  Venice  ;  Modern  Painters. 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis,  Memories  and  Portraits. 

1  Almost  any  other  good  text-book  of  rhetoric  will  meet  all  necessities  of 
citation  ;  for  example,  Bain's  standard  work,  or,  for  more  recent  and  more 
popular  presentation,  Barrett  Wendell's  English  Composition  (New  York, 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons). 


xlix 


SPECIMENS  OF  PROSE  DESCRIPTION 


i. 

Bncicnt  Btbens, 
JOHN  HENRY   NEWMAN. 

From  Historical  Sketches  (I,  iii).1  This  selection  is  annotated 
to  suggest  questions  for  class  discussion  of  the  following  selections. 
For  further  suggestions  of  the  same  sort,  see  Genung's  Hand- 
book of  Rhetorical  Analysis,  pp.  156-186 ;  Fletcher  and 
Carpenter  s  Theme  Writing,  pp.  33-63. 

The  passage,  as  a  whole,  exemplifies  description  for  purposes 
of  exposition.  A  simpler  example  of  the  same  sort  occurs  at  p.  13 
of  Lament's  Specimens  of  Exposition,  in  this  series. 

IF  we  would  know  what  a  University  is,  considered 
in  its  elementary  idea,  we  must  betake  ourselves  to  the 
first  and  most  celebrated  home  of  European  literature 
and  source  of  European  civilization,  to  the  bright  and 
5  beautiful  Athens,2 — Athens,  whose  schools  drew  to  her 
bosom,  and  then  sent  back  again  to  the  business  of 
life,  the  youth  of  the  Western  World  for  a  long  thou- 

1  Printed  by  kind  permission  of  Messrs.  Longmans,  Green  & 
Company. 

*  Bright  and  beautiful  Athens,  epithet  of  main  physical  aspect, 
followed  by  the  presentation,  in  a  few  details,  of  the  main  intel- 
lectual aspect,  a  central  metropolis  of  knowledge. 


2  JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN. 

sand  years.  Seated  on  the  verge  of  the  continent, 
the  city  seemed  hardly  suited  for  the  duties  of  a  cen- 
tral metropolis  of  knowledge  ;  yet,  what  it  lost  in  con- 
venience of  approach,  it  gained  in  its  neighborhood  to 
the  traditions  of  the  mysterious  East,  and  in  the  loveli-  5 
ness  of  the  region  in  which  it  lay.  Hither,  then,  as  to 
a  sort  of  ideal  land,  where  all  archetypes  of  the  great 
and  the  fair  were  found  in  substantial  being,  and  all 
departments  of  truth  explored,  and  all  diversities  of 
intellectual  power  exhibited,  where  taste  and  phil- 10 
osophy  were  majestically  enthroned  as  in  a  royal 
court,  where  there  was  no  sovereignty  but  that  of  the 
mind,  and  no  nobility  but  that  of  genius,  where  pro- 
fessors were  rulers,  and  princes  did  homage,  hither 
flocked  continually  from  the  very  corners  of  the  orbis  15 
terrarum,  the  many-tongued  generation,  just  rising,  or 
just  risen  into  manhood,  in  order  to  gain  wisdom. 

*  Pisistratus  had  in  an  early  age  discovered  and 
nursed  the  infant  genius  of  his  people,  and  Cimon, 
after  the  Persian  War,  had  given  it  a  home.  That  20 
war  had  established  the  naval  supremacy  of  Athens  ; 
she  had  become  an  imperial  state  ;  and  the  lonians, 
bound  to  her  by  the  double  chain  of  kindred  and  of 
subjection,  were  importing  into  her  both  their  mer- 
chandise and  their  civilization.  The  arts  and  the  25 
philosophy  of  the  Asiatic  coast  were  easily  carried 
across  the  sea,  and  there  was  Cimon,  as  I  have  said, 
with  his  ample  fortune,  ready  to  receive  them  with 
due  honours.  Not  content  with  patronising  their  pro- 
fessors, he  built  the  first  of  those  noble  porticos,  of  30 

1  Two  paragraphs  of  summary  narrative,  to  heighten  the  sig- 
nificance of  the  description. 


ANCIENT  ATHENS.  3 

which  we  hear  so  much  in  Athens,  and  he  formed 
the  groves,  which  in  process  of  time  became  the  cele- 
brated Academy.  Planting  is  one  of  the  most  graceful, 
as  in  Athens  it  was  one  of  the  most  beneficent,  of 
5  employments.  Cimon  took  in  hand  the  wild  wood, 
pruned  and  dressed  it,  and  laid  it  out  with  handsome 
walks  and  welcome  fountains.  Nor,  while  hospitable 
to  the  authors  of  the  city's  civilization,  was  he  un- 
grateful to  the  instruments  of  her  prosperity.  His 

10  trees  extended  their  cool,  umbrageous  branches  over 
the  merchants,  who  assembled  in  the  Agora,  for  many 
generations. 

Those  merchants  certainly  had  deserved  that  act 
of  bounty  ;  for  all  the  while  their  ships  had  been  carry- 

15  ing  forth  the  intellectual  fame  of  Athens  to  the  western 
world.  Then  commenced  what  may  be  called  her 
University  existence.  Pericles,  who  succeeded  Cimon 
both  in  the  government  and  in  the  patronage  of  art,  is 
said  by  Plutarch  to  have  entertained  the  idea  of  mak- 

20  ing  Athens  the  capital  of  federated  Greece  :  in  this  he 
failed,  but  his  encouragement  of  such  men  as  Phidias 
and  Anaxagoras  led  the  way  to  her  acquiring  a  far 
more  lasting  sovereignty  over  a  far  wider  empire. 
Little  understanding  the  sources  of  her  own  greatness, 

25  Athens  would  go  to  war  :  peace  is  the  interest  of  a 
seat  of  commerce  and  the  arts  ;  but  to  war  she  went ; 
yet  to  her,  whether  peace  or  war,  it  mattered  not. 
The  political  power  of  Athens  waned  and  disap- 
peared ;  kingdoms  rose  and  fell ;  centuries  rolled 

30  away, — they  did  but  bring  fresh  triumphs  to  the  city 
of  the  poet  and  the  sage.4  There  at  length  the 

4  Note  the  force  of  the  specific. 


4  JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN. 

swarthy 5  Moor  and  Spaniard  were  seen  to  meet  the 
blue-eyed  6  Gaul ;  and  the  Cappadocian,  late  subject 
of  Mithridates,  gazed  without  alarm  at  the  haughty 
conquering  Roman.  Revolution  after  revolution 
passed  over  the  face  of  Europe,  as  well  as  of  Greece,  5 
but  still  she  was  there, — Athens,  the  city  of  mind, — as 
radiant,  as  splendid,  as  delicate,  as  young,  as  ever  she 
had  been. 

*  Many  a  more  fruitful  coast  or  isle  is  washed  by 
the  blue  ^Egean,  many  a  spot  is  there  more  beautiful  IQ 
or  sublime  to  see,  many  a  territory  more  ample  ;  but 
there  was  one  charm  in  Attica,  which  in  the  same  per- 
fection was  nowhere  else.  The  deep  pastures 7  of 
Arcadia,  the  plain7  of  Argos,  the  Thessalian  vale,7  these 
had  not  the  gift  ;  Bceotia,  which  lay  to  its  immediate  15 
north,  was  notorious  for  its  very  want  of  it.  The 
heavy  atmosphere  of  that  Bceotia  might  be  good  for 
vegetation,  but  it  was  associated  in  popular  belief  with 
the  dulness  of  the  Boeotian  intellect :  on  the  contrary, 
the  special  purity,  elasticity,  clearness,  and  salubrity  20 
of  the  air  of  Attica,  fit  concomitant  and  emblem  of  its 
genius,  did  that  for  it  which  earth  did  not ; — it  brought 
out  every  bright  hue  and  tender  shade  of  the  land- 
scape over  which  it  was  spread,  and  would  have 

5  Epithet  description.     See  p.  xxxix. 

6  This  paragraph  presents  one  main  physical  trait,  hinted  at 
before,  but  here  specified  with  delicate  precision  (purity,  elasticity, 
etc.),  and  used  as  dominant. 

7  Passing  use  of  a  single  detail  to  suggest  the  different  character 
of  the  neighbouring  countries  (cf.  the  selection  at  the  bottom  of 
p.    xxiv).     Bceotia,    as  being  in   direct   contrast,   receives   more 
space  (cf.   p.  xxix). 


ANCIENT  ATHENS.  5 

illuminated  the  face  even  of  a  more  bare  and  rugged 
country. 

8  A  confined  triangle,  perhaps  fifty  miles  its  greatest 
length,  and  thirty  its  greatest  breadth  ;  two  elevated 
5  rocky  barriers,  meeting  at  an  angle ;  three  prominent 
mountains,  commanding  the  plain, — Parnes,  Penteli- 
cus,  and  Hymettus ;  an  unsatisfactory  soil ;  some 
streams,  not  always  full  ; — such  is  about  the  report 
which  the  agent  of  a  London  Company  would  have 

10  made  of  Attica.  He  would  report  that  the  climate 
was  mild  ;  the  hills  were  limestone  ;  there  was  plenty 
of  good  marble  ;  more  pasture  land  than  at  first  sur- 
vey might  have  been  expected,  sufficient  certainly  for 
sheep  and  goats  ;  fisheries  productive  ;  silver  mines 

£5  once,  but  long  since  worked  out  ;  figs  fair  ;  oil  first- 
rate  ;  olives  in  profusion.  But  what  he  would  not 
think  of  noting  down,  was,  that  that  olive  tree  was  so 
choice  in  nature  and  so  noble  in  shape,  that  it  excited 
a  religious  veneration  ;  and  that  it  took  so  kindly  to  the 

20  light  soil,  as  to  expand  into  woods  upon  the  open 
plain,  and  to  climb  up  and  fringe  the  hills.  He  would 
not  think  of  writing  word  to  his  employers,  how  that 
clear  air,  of  which  I  have  spoken,  brought  out,  yet 
blended  and  subdued,  the  colours  on  the  marble,  till 

8  This  paragraph  proceeds  to  detailed  description,  as  follows  : 
(i)  outline  and  salient  features,  merely  enumerated,  (2)  details  de- 
liberately enumerated  as  in  an  inventory,  (3)  the  same  details 
worked  up  in  picturesque  aspects,  and  other  picturesque  details 
added,  the  clarity  of  the  atmosphere  dominating  throughout. 
The  figures  are  few  and  simple  {fringe^  cheek^  carpeted ',  chain , 
etc.),  but  always  apt  and  precise.  Precision,  indeed,  is  a  main 
trait  of  the  description,  a  precision  that  does  not  exclude  emo- 
tional appreciation. 


6  JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN. 

they  had  a  softness  and  a  harmony  for  all  their  rich- 
ness, which  in  a  picture  looks  exaggerated,  yet  is  after 
all  within  the  truth.  He  would  not  tell,  how  that  same 
delicate  and  brilliant  atmosphere  freshened  up  the 
pale  olive,  till  the  olive  forgot  its  monotony,  and  its  5 
cheek  glowed  like  the  arbutus  or  beech  of  the  Umbrian 
hills.  He  would  say  nothing  of  the  thyme  and  thou- 
sand fragrant  herbs  which  carpeted  Hymettus ;  he 
would  hear  nothing  of  the  hum  of  its  bees  ;fl  nor  take 
much  account  of  the  rare  flavour  of  its  honey,  since  10 
Gozo  and  Minorca  were  sufficient  for  the  English 
demand.  He  10  would  look  over  the  ^Egean  from  the 
height  he  had  ascended  ;  he  would  follow  with  his 
eye  the  chain  of  islands,  which,  starting  from  the 
Sunian  headland,  seemed  to  offer  the  fabled  divinities  15 
of  Attica,  when  they  would  visit  their  Ionian  cousins, 
a  sort  of  viaduct  thereto  across  the  sea  :  but  that 
fancy  would  not  occur  to  him1;  nor  any  admiration  of 
the  dark  violet  billows  "  with  their  white  edges  down 
below;  nor11  of  those  graceful,  fan-like  jets  of  silver 20 
upon  the  rocks,  which  slowly  rise  aloft  like  water 
spirits  from  the  deep,  then  shiver,  and  break,  and 

9  Thus  far  light  has  been  the  main  element,  as  it  is  throughout. 
Here  sound  is  introduced.     Then  colour,  which  has  received  only 
allusions,  is  defined  in  the  violet  and  white  of  the  billows,  the 
roseate  golden  hue  of  the  jutting  crags,  etc. 

10  Note  in  this  sentence  the  careful,  yet  unobtrusive,  indication 
of  the  point  of  view  (p.  xxv). 

11  From  this  point  the   description,  having   assured   clearness, 
warms  to  more  sympathetic  presentation,  keeping  the  clarity  of 
the  atmosphere  dominant.     With  the  introduction  of  motion  come 
also  more  vivid   and   more    imaginative  figures  {fan-like,  water 
spirits,  shiver,  shroud,  etc.),  but  without  any  loss  of  precision. 


ANCIENT  A  THENS.  7 

spread,  and  shroud  themselves,  and  disappear,  in  a 
soft  mist  of  foam  ;  nor  of  the  gentle,  incessant  heav- 
ing and  panting  of  the  whole  liquid  plain  ;  nor  of  the 
long  waves,  keeping  steady  time,  like  a  line  of  sol- 
5  diery,  as  they  resound  upon  the  hollow  shore, — he 
would  not  begin  to  notice  that  restless  living  element 
at  all,  except  to  bless  his  stars  that  he  was  not  upon 
it.  Nor  the  distinct  detail,  nor  the  refined  colouring, 
nor  the  graceful  outline  and  roseate  golden  hue  of  the 

10  jutting  crags,  nor  the  bold  shadows  cast  from  Otus  or 
Laurium  by  the  declining  sun  ; — our  agent  of  a  mer- 
cantile firm  would  not  value  these  matters  even  at  a 
low  figure.  Rather  we  must  turn  for  the  sympathy 
we  seek  to  yon  pilgrim  student ia  come  from  a  semi- 

15  barbarous  land  to  that  small  corner  of  the  earth,  as  to 
a  shrine,  where  he  might  take  his  fill  of  gazing  on 
those  emblems  and  coruscations  of  invisible  unorigi- 
nate  perfection.  It  was  the  stranger  from  a  remote 
province,  from  Britain  or  from  Mauritania,  who  in  a 

20  scene  so  different  from  that  of  his  chilly,  woody 
swamps,12  or  of  his  fiery  choking  sands,13  learned  at  once 
what  a  real  University  must  be,  by  coming  to  under- 
stand the  sort  of  country,  which  was  its  suitable  home. 
Nor18  was  this  all  that  a  University  required,  and 

12  Finally  the  presentation  is  concentrated  in  its  effect  (p.  xl) 
upon  a  typical  student,  whose  native  country  is  briefly  hinted,  as 
before,  by  a  single  characteristic  detail. 

13  Though  the  appeal  of  Athens  was  to  the  poet,  the  scholar,  the 
student,  rather  than  to  the  man  of  business,  yet  it  is  not  to  be 
thought  of  as  lacking  in  practical  advantages.     The  relation  of 
these  two  paragraphs  shows  that  the  progress  of  the  description 
is  logical,   and  this  because  its  purpose  is  expository.     The  re- 
mainder of  the  passage  is  almost  entirely  expository  description. 


8  JOHN  HENRY  NEWMAN. 

found  in  Athens.  No  one,  even  there,  could  live  on 
poetry.  If  the  students  at  that  famous  place  had 
nothing  better  than  bright  hues  and  soothing  sounds, 
they  would  not  have  been  able  or  disposed  to  turn 
their  residence  there  to  much  account.  Of  course  5 
they  must  have  the  means  of  living,  nay,  in  a  certain 
sense,  of  enjoyment,  if  Athens  was  to  be  an  Alma 
Mater  at  the  time,  or  to  remain  afterwards  a  pleasant 
thought  in  their  memory.  And  so  they  had  :  be  it 
recollected  that  Athens  was  a  port,  and  a  mart  of  10 
trade,  perhaps  the  first  in  Greece  ;  and  this  was  very 
much  to  the  point,  when  a  number  of  strangers  were 
*ver  flocking  to  it,  whose  combat  was  to  be  with  intel- 
lectual, not  physical  difficulties,  and  who  claimed  to 
have  their  bodily  wants  supplied,  that  they  might  be  15 
at  leisure  to  set  about  furnishing  their  minds.  Now, 
barren  as  was  the  soil  of  Attica,  and  bare  the  face  of 
the  country,  yet  it  had  only  too  many  resources  for 
an  elegant,  nay  luxurious  abode  there.  So  abundant 
were  the  imports  of  the  place,  that  it  was  a  common  20 
saying,  that  the  productions,  which  were  found  singly 
elsewhere,  were  brought  all  together  in  Athens.  Corn 
and  wine,  the  staple  of  subsistence  in  such  a  climate, 
came  from  the  isles  of  the  ^Egean  ;  fine  wool  and 
carpeting  from  Asia  Minor  ;  slaves,  as  now,  from  the  25 
Euxine,  and  timber  too  ;  and  iron  and  brass  from  the 
coasts  of  the  Mediterranean.  The  Athenian  did  not 
condescend  to  manufactures  himself,  but  encouraged 
them  in  others  ;  and  a  population  of  foreigners  caught 
at  the  lucrative  occupation  both  for  home  consumption  30 
and  for  exportation.  Their  cloth,  and  other  textures 
for  dress  and  furniture,  and  their  hardware — for  in- 


ANCIEtfT  A  TKEtfS.  9 

stance,  armour — were  in  great  request.  Labour  was 
cheap  ;  stone  and  marble  in  plenty  ;  and  the  taste  and 
skill,  which  at  first  were  devoted  to  public  buildings, 
as  temples  and  porticos,  were  in  course  of  time  applied 
5  to  the  mansions  of  public  men.  If  nature  did  much 
for  Athens,  it  is  undeniable  that  art  did  much  more. 


II. 

pestilence. 

I.  EDWARD  GIBBON. 

II.  AUGUSTUS  H.  JESSOPP. 

From  The  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire  (cap.  xliii),  by 
Edward  Gibbon  ;  and  The  Black  Death  in  East  Anglia,  by  Augus- 
tus H.  Jessopp.1  These  selections  are  printed  together  for  com- 
parison. It  is  suggested,  first,  that  the  comparison  be  enlarged 
by  study  of  the  Egyptian  plagues  in  Exodus  (capp.  vii-xii),  of 
tne  pestilence  at  Athens  as  described  by  Thucydides  (Book 
ii,  §  47-53,  of  Defoe's  Journal  of  the  Plague  Year,  or  of  Dr. 
Hecker's  Black  Death  (translated  in  Cassell's  National  Library, 
paper)  ;  and,  secondly,  that  comparisons  be  introduced  through- 
out the  study  of  this  volume,  of  one  selection  with  another,  or 
of  any  selection  with  some  parallel  drawn  from  the  teacher's 
reading. 

I. 

ETHIOPIA  and  Egypt  have  been  stigmatized  in 
every  age  as  the  original  source  and  seminary  of  the 
plague.  In  a  damp,  hot,  stagnating  air,  this  African 
fever  is  generated  from  the  putrefaction  of  animal  sub- 
stances, and  especially  from  the  swarms  of  locusts,  not 
less  destructive  to  mankind  in  their  death  than  in  their 
lives.  The  fatal  disease  which  depopulated  the  earth 
in  the  time  of  Justinian  and  his  successors  first  ap- 

1  Printed,  by  kind  permission  of  Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons, 
from  The  Coming  of  the  Friars,  and  Other  Essays* 


PESTILENCE.  II 

peared  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Pelusium,  between 
the  Serbonian  bog  and  the  eastern  channel  of  the  Nile. 
From  thence,  tracing  as  it  were  a  double  path,  it 
spread  to  the  East,  over  Syria,  Persia,  and  the  Indies, 
5  and  penetrated  to  the  West,  along  the  coast  of  Africa 
and  over  the  continent  of  Europe.  In  the  spring  of 
the  second  year  Constantinople,  during  three  or  four 
months,  was  visited  by  the  pestilence  ;  and  Proco- 
pius,  who  observed  its  progress  and  symptoms  with 

10  the  eyes  of  a  physician,  has  emulated  the  skill  and 
diligence  of  Thucydides  in  the  description  of  the 
plague  of  Athens.  The  infection  was  sometimes 
announced  by  the  visions  of  a  distempered  fancy,  and 
the  victim  despaired  as  soon  as  he  had  heard  the 

15  menace  and  felt  the  stroke  of  an  invisible  spectre. 
But  the  greater  number,  in  their  beds,  in  the  streets, 
in  their  usual  occupation,  were  surprised  by  a  slight 
fever  ;  so  slight,  indeed,  that  neither  the  pulse  nor  the 
colour  of  the  patient  gave  any  signs  of  the  approach- 

20  ing  danger.  The  same,  the  next,  or  the  succeeding 
day,  it  was  declared  by  the  swelling  of  the  glands, 
particularly  those  of  the  groin,  of  the  armpits,  and 
under  the  ear  ;  and  when  these  buboes  or  tumours 
were  opened,  they  were  found  to  contain  a  coal,  or 

25  black  substance,  of  the  size  of  a  lentil.  If  they  came 
to  a  just  swelling  and  suppuration,  the  patient  was 
saved  by  this  kind  and  natural  discharge  of  the  morbid 
humour  ;  but  if  they  continued  hard  and  dry,  a  morti- 
fication quickly  ensued,  and  the  fifth  day  was  com- 

3omonly  the  term  of  his  life.  The  fever  was  often 
accompanied  with  lethargy  or  delirium  ;  the  bodies  of 
the  sick  were  covered  with  black  pustules  or  car- 


IS  EDWARD  GIBBON* 

buncles,  the  symptoms  of  immediate  death  ;  and  in  the 
constitutions  too  feeble  to  produce  an  eruption,  the 
vomiting  of  blood  was  followed  by  a  mortification  of 
the  bowels.      To    pregnant   women    the   plague   was 
generally  mortal ;  yet  one  infant  was  drawn  alive  from   5 
his  dead  mother,  and  three  mothers  survived  the  loss 
of  their  infected  foetus.     Youth  was  the  most  perilous 
season,  and  the  female  sex  was  less  susceptible  than 
the  male  ;  but  every  rank  and  profession  was  attacked 
with   indiscriminate   rage,   and   many   of   those   who  10 
escaped  were  deprived  of  the  use  of   their   speech, 
without  being  secure  from  a  return  of  the  disorder. 
The  physicians  of  Constantinople  were  zealous  and 
skilful  ;     but   their   art   was   baffled   by   the   various 
symptoms  and  pertinacious  vehemence  of  the  disease  :  15 
the    same    remedies    were    productive    of    contrary 
effects,  and  the  event  capriciously  disappointed  their 
prognostics   of   death   or   recovery.       The   order  of 
funerals  and  the  right  of  sepulchres  were  confounded  ; 
those  who  were  left  without  friends  or  servants  lay  20 
unburied  in  the  streets,  or  in  their  desolate  houses  ; 
and  a  magistrate  was  authorized  to  collect  the  promis- 
cuous heaps  of  dead  bodies,  to  transport  them  by  land 
or  water,  and  to  inter  them  in  deep  pits  beyond  the 
precincts  of  the  city.      Their  own  danger  and   the  25 
prospect  of  public  distress  awakened  some  remorse  in 
the  minds  of  the  most  vicious  of  mankind  :   the  con- 
fidence of  health  again   revived   their  passions   and 
habits  ;  but  philosophy  must  disdain  the  observation 
of  Procopius,  that  the  lives  of  such  men  were  guarded  30 
by  the  peculiar  favour  of  fortune  or  of  Providence. 
He  forgot,  or  perhaps  he  secretly  recollected,  that  the 


PESTILENCE.  1 3 

plague  had  touched  the  person  of  Justinian  himself  ; 
but  the  abstemious  diet  of  the  emperor  may  suggest, 
as  in  the  case  of  Socrates,  a  more  rational  and  honour- 
able cause  for  his  recovery.  During  his  sickness  the 
5  public  consternation  was  expressed  in  the  habits  of 
the  citizens  ;  and  their  idleness  and  despondence 
occasioned  a  general  scarcity  in  the  capital  of  the 
East. 

II. 

THIS  is  the  earliest  instance  I  have  yet  met  with  of 

10  the  appearance  of  the  plague  among  us,  and  as  it  is 
the  earliest,  so  does  it  appear  to  have  been  one  of  the 
most  frightful  visitations  from  which  any  town  or  vil- 
lage in  Suffolk  or  Norfolk  suffered  during  the  time 
the  pestilence  lasted.  On  the  ist  of  May  another 

15  court  was  held,  fifteen  more  deaths  are  recorded — 
thirteen  men  and  two  women.  Seven  of  them  without 
heirs.  On  the  3rd  of  November,  apparently  when  the 
panic  abated,  again  the  court  met.  In  the  six  months 
that  had  passed  thirty-six  more  deaths  had  occurred, 

20  and  thirteen  more  households  had  been  left  without  a 
living  soul  to  represent  them.  In  this  little  com- 
munity, in  six  months'  time,  twenty-one  families  had 
been  absolutely  obliterated — men,  women  and  children 
— and  of  the  rest  it  is  difficult  to  see  how  there  can 

25  have  been  a  single  house  in  which  there  was  not  one 
dead.  Meanwhile,  some  time  in  September,  the 
parson  of  the  parish  had  fallen  a  victim  to  the 
scourge,  and  on  the  2nd  of  October  another  was  insti- 
tuted in  his  room.  Who  reaped  the  harvest  ?  The 

30 tithe  sheaf  too — how  was  it  garnered  in  the  barn? 


*4  AUGUSTUS  H.  JESSOPP. 

And  the  poor  kine  at  milking  time  ?     Hush  !     Let  us 
pass  on. 

The  plague  had  apparently  fallen  with  the  greatest 
virulence  upon  the  coast  and  along  the  water-courses, 
but  already  in  the  spring  had  reached  the  neighbour-  5 
hood  of  Norwich,  and  was  showing  an  unsparing  im- 
partiality in  its  visitation.  At  Earlham  and  Wytton 
and  Horsford,  at  Taverham  and  Bramerton,  all  of  them 
villages  within  five  miles  of  the  cathedral,  the  parsons 
had  already  died.  Round  the  great  city,  then  the  10 
second  city  in  England,  village  was  being  linked  to 
village  closer  and  closer  every  day  in  one  ghastly 
chain  of  death.  What  a  ring-fence  of  horror  and  con- 
tagion for  all  comers  and  goers  to  overpass  ! 

For  two  months  Thomas  de  Methwold,  the  official,  15 
stayed  where  he  had  been  bidden  to  stay,  in  the  thick 
of  it  all,  at  the  palace.     On  the  29th  of  May  he  could 
bear  it  no  longer.     Do  you  ask  was  he  afraid  ?     Not 
so  !     We  shall   see  that  he  was  no  craven  ;  but   the 
bravest  men  are  not  reckless,  and  least  of  all  are  they  20 
the  men  who  are  careless  about  the  lives  or  the  feel- 
ings of  others.     The  great  cemetery  of  the  city  of  Nor- 
wich was  at  this  time  actually  within  the  cathedral 
Close.     The  whole  of  the  large  space  enclosed  between 
the   nave   of   the   cathedral    on    the   south   and   the  25 
bishop's  palace  on  the  east,  and  stretching  as  far  as 
the  Erpingham  gate  on  the  west,  was  one  huge  grave- 
yard.     When    the  country  parsons  come   to  present 
themselves  for  institution  at  the  palace,  they  had  to 
pass  straight  across  this  cemetery.     The  tiny  church- 30 
yards  of  the  city,  demonstrably   very  little   if  at  all 


PESTILENCE.  15 

larger  than  they  are  now,  were  soon  choked,  the  soil 
rising  higher  and  higher  above  the  level  of  the  street, 
which  even  to  this  day  is  in  some  cases  five  or  six  feet 
below  the  soppy  sod  piled  up  within  the  old  enclosures. 
5  To  the  great  cemetery  within  the  close  the  people 
brought  their  dead,  the  tumbrels  discharging  their 
load  of  corpses  all  day  long,  tilting  them  into  the  huge 
pits  made  ready  to  receive  them  ;  the  stench  of  putre- 
faction palpitating  through  the  air,  and  borne  by  the 

10  gusts  of  the  western  breeze  through  the  windows  of 
the  palace,  where  the  Bishop's  official  sat,  as  the  can- 
didates  knelt  before  him  and  received  institution  with 
the  usual  formalities.  It  was  hard  upon  him,  it  was 
doubly  so  upon  those  who  had  travelled  a  long  day's 

15  journey  through  the  pestilential  villages  ;  and  on  the 
3oth  of  May  the  official  removed  from  Norwich  to 
Terlyng,  in  Essex,  where  the  Bishop  had  a  residence  ; 
there  he  remained  for  the  next  ten  days,  during  which 
time  he  instituted  thirty-nine  more  parsons  to  their 

20  several  benefices.  By  this  time  other  towns  in  the 
diocese  had  felt  the  force  of  the  visitation.  Ipswich 
had  been  smitten,  and  Stowmarket,  and  East  Dereham — 
how  many  more  we  cannot  tell.  Then  the  news  came 
that  the  Bishop  had  returned  ;  Thomas  de  Methwold 

25  was  at  once  ordered  back  to  Norwich — come  what 
might,  that  was  his  post ;  there  he  should  stay,  whether 
to  live  or  die. 

•  •  •  •  • 

How  could  it  be  otherwise  ?     In  the  two  counties  of 
Norfolk  and  Suffolk,  at  least  nineteen  religious  houses 

30  were  left  without  prior  or  abbot.  We  may  be  quite 
sure  that  where  the  chief  ruler  dropped  off  the 


*6  AUGUSTUS  H.  JESSOPP. 

brethren  of  the  house  and  the  army  of  servants  and 
hangers-on  did  not  escape.  What  happened  at  the 
great  Abbey  of  St.  Edmund's  we  know  not  yet,  and 
until  we  get  more  light  it  is  idle  to  conjecture,  but,  as 
a  man  stands  in  that  vast  graveyard  at  Bury,  and  looks  5 
around  him,  he  can  hardly  help  trying — trying,  but 
failing — to  imagine  what  the  place  must  have  looked 
like  when  the  plague  was  raging.  What  a  Valley  of 
Hinnom  it  must  have  been  !  Those  three  mighty 
churches,  all  within  a  stone's  throw  of  one  another,  10 
and  one  of  them  just  one  hundred  feet  longer  than  the 
cathedral  at  Norwich,  sumptuous  with  costly  offerings, 
and  miracles  of  splendour  within — and  outside  ghastly 
heaps  of  corruption,  and  piles  of  corpses  waiting  their 
turn  to  be  covered  up  with  an  inch  or  two  of  earth.  15 
Who  can  adequately  realize  the  horrors  of  that  awful 
summer?  In  the  desolate  swamps  through  which  the 
sluggish  Bure  crawls  reluctantly  to  mingle  its  waters 
with  the  Yare  ;  by  the  banks  of  the  Waveney  where 
the  little  Bungay  nunnery  had  been  a  refuge  for  the  20 
widow,  the  forsaken,  or  the  devout  for  centuries  ;  in 
the  valley  of  the  Nar — the  Norfolk  Holy  Land — where 
seven  monasteries  of  one  sort  or  another  clustered, 
each  distant  from  the  other  but  a  few  short  miles — 
among  the  ooze  and  sedge  and  chill  loneliness  of  the  25 
Broads,  where  the  tall  reeds  wave  and  whisper,  and 
all  else  is  silent — the  glorious  buildings  with  their 
sumptuous  churches  were  little  better  than  centres  of 
contagion.  From  the  stricken  towns  people  fled  to 
the  monasteries,  lying  away  there  in  their  seclusion,  30 
lonely,  favoured  of  God.  If  there  was  hcpe  anywhere 
it  must  be  there.  As  frightened  widows  and  orphans 


PESTILENCE.  17 

flocked  to  these  havens  of  refuge,  they  carried  the 
Black  Death  with  them,  and  when  they  dropped  death- 
stricken  at  the  doors,  they  left  the  contagion  behind 
them  as  their  only  legacy.  Guilty  wretches  with  a 
5  load  of  crime  upon  their  consciences  —  desperate  as 
far  as  this  world  was  concerned,  and  ready  for  any 
act  of  wickedness  should  the  occasion  arrive  —  shud- 
dered lest  they  should  go  down  to  burning  flame  for 
ever  now  that  there  was  none  to  shrive  them  or  to 

10  give  the  viaticum  to  any  late  penitent  in  his  agony. 
In  the  tall  towers  by  the  wayside  the  bells  hung  mute  ; 
no  hands  to  ring  them  or  none  to  answer  to  their  call. 
Meanwhile,  across  the  lonely  fields,  toiling  dismally, 
and  ofttimes  missing  the  track  —  for  who  should  guide 

15  them  or  show  the  path  ?  —  parson  and  monk  and 
trembling  nun  made  the  best  of  their  way  to  Norwich  ; 
their  errand  to  seek  admission  to  the  vacant  prefer- 
ment. Think  of  them,  after  miles  of  dreary  travelling, 
reaching  the  city  gates  at  last,  and  shudderingly 

20  threading  the  filthy  alleys  which  then  served  as  streets, 
stepping  back  into  doorways  to  give  the  dead  carts 
passage,  and  jostled  by  lepers  and  outcasts,  the  touch 
of  whose  garments  was  itself  a  horror.  Think  of 
them  staggering  across  the  great  cemetery  and  stum- 

25blingover  the  rotting  carcases  not  yet  committed  to 
the  earth,  breathing  all  the  while  the  tainted  breath  of 
corruption  —  sickening,  loathsome  !  Think  of  them 
returning  as  they  came,  going  over  the  same  ground  as 
before,  and  compelled  to  gaze  again  at 


30  *'  Sights  that  haunt  the  soul  for  ever.  or  THE" 

Poisoning  life  till  life  is  done/'  N  I  V  E  R  S  II 

OF 


c8  AUGUSTUS  H.  JESSOPP. 

Think  of  them  foot-sore,  half-famished,  hardly  dar- 
ing to  buy  bread  and  meat  for  their  hunger,  or  to  beg 
a  cup  of  cold  water  for  Christ's  sake,  or  entreat  shelter 
for  the  night  in  their  faintness  and  weariness,  lest  men 
should  cry  out  at  them — "Look!  the  Black  Death 
has  clutched  another  of  the  doomed  ! " 


III. 

parts  ^Before  tbc  Second  Bmptre. 
GEORGE  DU  MAURIER. 

From  Peter  Ibbetson.1  This  selection  is  intended  to  exemplify 
the  range  of  suggestion  (p.  xi)  and  the  method  of  simple  enumera- 
tion by  narrative  (p.  xxx).  Observe  also  the  recurring  suggestion 
of  the  aspect  of  the  whole,  and  the  frequent  use  of  bold  figures. 

Other  examples  of  the  cumulative  method,  with  or  without 
narrative,  may  be  found  in  any  good  guide  book,  or  better  in  Mrs. 
Schuyler  Van  Rensselaer's  English  Cathedrals;  in  Johnson's 
Journey  to  the  Western  Islands  of  Scotland,  in  Lamb's  Old 
Margate  Hoy  (Last  Essays  of  Elia),  in  Hawthorne's  Marble 
Faun,  in  Stevenson's  Across  the  Plains,  and  in  many  familiar 
descriptions  by  Dickens,  for  example,  in  the  third  chapter  of 
David  Coppcrfield. 

As  we  grew  older  and  wiser  we  had  permission  to 
extend  our  explorations  to  Meudon,  Versailles,  St. 
Germain,  and  other  delightful  places  ;  to  ride  thither 
on  hired  horses,  after  having  duly  learned  to  ride 
5  at  the  famous  "  School  of  Equitation,"  in  the  Rue 
D  u  phot. 

Also,  we  swam  in  those  delightful  summer  baths  in 

the  Seine,  that  are  so  majestically  called  "  Schools  of 

Natation,"  and  became  past  masters  in  "  la  coupe  "  (a 

10  stroke  no  other  Englishman   but  ourselves  has  ever 

Copyright,  1891,  Harper  &  Brothers.  Printed  by  kind  per- 
mission  of  the  publishers. 

19 


20  GEORGE  DU  MAURIER. 

}>een  quite  able  to  manage),  and  in  all  the  different 
delicate  "  nuances  "  of  header-taking — "  la  coulante," 
'*  la  hussarde,"  "  la  tete-beche,"  "  la  tout  ce  que  vous 
voudrez." 

Also,  we  made  ourselves  at  home  in  Paris,  especially   5 
old  Paris. 

For  instance,  there  was  the  island  of  St.  Louis,  with 
its  stately  old  mansions  entre  cour  et  jar  din,  behind 
grim  stone  portals  and  high  walls,  where  great  magis- 
trates and  lawyers  dwelt  in  dignified  seclusion — the  10 
nobles  of  the  robe  ;  but  where  once  had  dwelt,  in 
days  gone  by,  the  greater  nobles  of  the  sword — crusa- 
ders, perhaps,  and  knights  templars,  like  Brian  de 
Bois  Guilbert. 

And  that  other  more  famous  island,  la  Cite,  where  15 
Paris  itself  was  born,  where  Notre  Dame  reared  its 
twin  towers  above  the  melancholy,  gray,  leprous  walls 
and  dirty  brown  roofs  of  the  Hotel-Dieu. 

Pathetic  little  tumble-down   old  houses,  all  out  of 
drawing    and    perspective,    nestled    like  old    spiders'  20 
webs  between  the  buttresses  of  the  great  cathedral  ; 
and  on  the  two  sides  of  the  little  square  in  front  (the 
Place  du  Parvis    Notre   Dame)  stood    ancient  stone 
dwellings,    with   high     slate    roofs    and    elaborately- 
wrought  iron  balconies.     They  seemed  to  have  such  25 
romantic  histories  that  I  never  tired  of  gazing  at  them, 
and  wondering  what  the  histories  could  be  ;  and  now 
I  think  of  it,  one  of  these  very  dwellings  must  have 
been    the   Hotel    de    Gondelaurier,  where,  according 
to  the  most  veracious  historian    that  ever  was,  poor  30 
Esmeralda  once  danced  and  played  the  tambourine  to 
divert  the  fair  damosel  Fleur-de-Lys  de  Gondelaurier 


PARIS  BEFORE    THE   SECOND  EMPIRE.        21 

and  her  noble  friends,  all  of  whom  she  so  transcended 
in  beauty,  purity,  goodness,  and  breeding  (although 
she  was  but  an  untaught,  wandering  gypsy  girl,  out  of 
the  gutter)  ;  and  there,  before  them  all  and  the  gay 

5  archer,  she  was  betrayed  to  her  final  undoing  by  her 
goat,  whom  she  had  so  imprudently  taught  how  to 
spell  the  beloved  name  of  "  Phebus.n 

Close  by  was  the  Morgue,  that  grewsome  building 
which  the  great  etcher  Meryon  has  managed  to  invest 

to  with  some  weird  fascination  akin  to  that  it  had  for  me 
in  those  days — and  has  now,  as  I  see  it  with  the 
charmed  eyes  of  Memory. 

La  Morgue  !  what  a  fatal  twang  there  is  about  the 
very  name  ! 

15  After  gazing  one's  fill  at  the  horrors  within  (as 
became  a  healthy-minded  English  boy)  it  was  but  a 
step  to  the  equestrian  statute  of  Henri  Quatre,  on  the 
Pont-Neuf  (the  oldest  bridge  in  Paris,  by  the  way)  ; 
there,  astride  his  long-tailed  charger,  he  smiled,  le  roy 

20  vert  et galant,  just  midway  between  either  bank  of  the 
historic  river,  just  where  it  was  most  historic  ;  and 
turned  his  back  on  the  Paris  of  the  Bourgeois  King 
with  the  pear-shaped  face  and  the  mutton-chop 
whiskers. 

25  And  there  one  stood,  spellbound  in  indecision,  like 
the  ass  of  Buridan  between  two  sacks  of  oats  ;  for  on 
either  side,  north  or  south  of  the  Pont-Neuf,  were  to 
be  found  enchanting  slums,  all  more  attractive  the 
ones  than  the  others,  winding  up  and  down  hill  and 

30  round  about  and  in  and  out,  like  haunting  illustrations 
by  Gustave  Dore  to  Drolatick  Tales  by  Balzac  (not 
seen  or  read  by  me  till  many  years  later,  I  beg  to  say) 


22  GEORGE  DU  MAURIER. 

Dark,  narrow,  silent,  deserted  streets  that  would 
turn  up  afterward  in  many  a  nightmare — with  the 
gutter  in  the  middle  and  towerlets  and  stone  posts  all 
along  the  sides  ;  and  high  fantastic  walls  (where  it  was 
defendu  d'affichcr),  with  bits  of  old  battlement  at  the  5 
top,  and  overhanging  boughs  of  sycamore  and  lime, 
and  behind  them  gray  old  gardens  that  dated  from  the 
days  of  Louis  le  Hutin  and  beyond  !  And  suggestive 
names  printed  in  old  rusty  iron  letters  at  the  street 
corners — "  Rue  Videgousset,"  "  Rue  Coupe-gorge,"  10 
"  Rue  de  la  Vieille  Truanderie,"  "  Impasse  de  la 
Tour  de  Nesle,"  etc.,  that  appealed  to  the  imagination 
like  a  chapter  from  Hugo  or  Dumas. 

And  the  way  to  these  was  by  long,  tortuous,  busy 
thoroughfares,  most  irregularly  flagged,  and   all  alive  15 
with  strange,  delightful  people  in  blue  blouses,  brown 
woolen   tricots,  wooden  shoes,  red  and   white  cotton 
nightcaps,  rags  and  patches  ;  most  graceful  girls,  with 
pretty,  self-respecting  feet,  and  flashing  eyes,  and  no 
head-dress    but    their    own    hair ;  gay,   fat    hags,    all  20 
smile  ;  thin  hags,  with  faces  of  appalling  wickedness 
or  misery  ;    precociously   witty  little    gutter-imps   of 
either   sex  ;    and    such   cripples  !  jovial   hunchbacks, 
lusty     blind     beggars,     merry     creeping     paralytics, 
scrofulous   wretches    who   joked    and    punned   about  25 
their  sores  ;  light-hearted,  genial  mendicant  monsters 
without  arms  or  legs,  who  went  ramping  through  the 
mud  on  their  bellies,   from   one  underground   wine- 
shop to  another ;  and  blue-chinned  priests  and  bare- 
footed brown  monks  and  demure  Sisters  of  Charity,  30 
and  here  and  there  a  jolly  chiffonnier  with  his  hook, 
iind   his   knap-basket   behind  ;  or  a  cuirassier,  or  a 


PARIS  BEFORE    THE   SECOND  EMPIRE.        23 

gigantic  carbineer,  or  gay  little  "  Hunter  of  Africa,"  or 
a  couple  of  bold  gendarmes  riding  abreast,  with  their 
towering  black  bonnets  a  poil ;  or  a  pair  of  pathetic 
little  red-legged  soldiers,  conscripts  just  fresh  from 

5  the  country,  with  innocent  light  eyes  and  straw- 
colored  hair  and  freckled  brown  faces,  walking  hand 
in  hand,  and  staring  at  all  the  pork-butchers'  shops — 
and  sometimes  at  the  pork-butcher's  wife  ! 

Then  a  proletarian  wedding  procession — headed  by 

10  the  bride  and  bridegroom,  an  ungainly  pair  in  their 
Sunday  best — all  singing  noisily  together.  Then  a 
pauper  funeral,  or  a  covered  stretcher,  followed  by 
sympathetic  eyes,  on  its  way  to  the  Hotel-Dieu  ;  or 
the  last  sacrament,  with  bell  and  candle,  bound  for  the 

15  bedside  of  some  humble  agonizer  in  extremis — and  we 
all  uncovered  as  it  went  by. 

And  then,  for  a  running  accompaniment  of  sound, 
the  clanging  chimes,  the  itinerant  street  criers,  the 
tinkle  of  the  marchand  dc  coco,  the  drum,  the  cor  de 

zochasse,  the  organ  of  Barbary,  the  ubiquitous  pet 
parrot,  the  knife-grinder,  the  bawling  fried-potato 
monger,  and,  most  amusing  of  all,  the  poodle-clipper 
and  his  son,  strophe  and  antistrophe,  for  every  minute 
the  little  boy  would  yell  out  in  his  shrill  treble  that 

25  "  his  father  clipped  poodles  for  thirty  sous,  and  was 
competent  also  to  undertake  the  management  of 
refractory  tomcats,"  upon  which  the  father  would 
growl  in  his  solemn  bass,  "  My  son  speaks  the  truth  " — 
L' enfant  dit  vrai  ! 

30  And  rising  above  the  general  cacophony  the  din  of 
the  eternally  cracking  whip,  of  the  heavy  cart-whee] 
jolting  over  the  uneven  stones,  the  stamp  and  neigh 


24  GEORGE  DU  MAURIER. 

of  the  spirited  little  French  cart-horse  and  the  music 
of  his  many  bells,  and  the  cursing  and  swearing  and 
hue!  did,!  of  his  driver  !  It  was  all  entrancing. 

Thence  home — to  quiet,  innocent,  suburban  Passy — 
by  the  quays,  walking  on  the  top  of  the  stone  parapet   5 
all  the  way,  so  as  to  miss  nothing  (till  a  gendarme 
was  in  sight),  or  else  by  the  boulevards,  the  Rue  de 
Rivoli,  the  Champs  Elyse*es,  the  Avenue  de  St.  Cloud, 
and  the  Chaussee   de  la  Muette.     What  a  beautiful 
walk  !     Is  there  another  like  it  anywhere   as  it  was  10 
then,  in  the  sweet  early  forties  of  this  worn-out  old 
century,  and  before  this  poor  scribe  had  reached  his 
teens  ? 

Ah  !    it   is   something   to    have  known  that  Paris, 
which  lay  at  one's  feet  as  one  gazed  from  the  heights  15 
of  Passy,  with  all  its  pinnacles  and  spires  and  gor- 
geously-gilded domes,  its  Arch  of  Triumph,  its  Ely- 
sian    Fields,    its    Field  of    Mars,   its    Towers   of  our 
Lady,  its  far-off  Column  of    July,   its  Invalids,    and 
Vale   of    Grace,  and    Magdalen,    and   Place   of    the  20 
Concord,  where  the  obelisk  reared  its  exotic  peak  by 
the  beautiful  unforgettable  fountains. 

There    flowed    the    many-bridged    winding   river, 
always  the  same  way,  unlike  our  tidal  Thames,  and 
always  full;   just  beyond  it  was  spread  that  stately,  25 
exclusive  suburb,  the  despair  of  the  newly  rich  and 
recently  ennobled,  where    almost  every  other    house 
bore  a  name  which  read  like  a  page  o;  French  his- 
tory ;  and  farther  still  the  merry,  wicked  Latin  quarter 
and  the  grave  Sorbonne,  the  Pantheon,  the  Garden  of  30 
Plants  ;  on  the  hither  side  in  the  middle  distance,  the 


PARIS  BEFORE    THE   SECOND  EMPIRE.        25 

Louvre,   where  the   kings   of  France   had   dwelt   for 
centuries  ;    the  Tuileries,    where  "  the    King   of  the 
French"  dwelt  then,  and  just  for  a  little  while  yet. 
Well   I   knew  and  loved  it  all  ;  and  most  of  all  I 

5  loved  it  when  the  sun  was  setting  at  my  back,  and 
innumerable  distant  windows  reflected  the  blood-red 
western  flame.     It  seemed  as  though  half  Paris  were 
on  fire,  with  the  cold  blue  east  for  a  background. 
Dear  Paris  ! 

10  Yes,  it  is  something  to  have  roamed  over  it  as  a 
small  boy — a  small  English  boy  (that  is,  a  small  boy 
unattended  by  his  mother  or  his  nurse),  curious,  in- 
quisitive, and  indefatigable  ;  full  of  imagination  ;  all 
his  senses  keen  with  the  keenness  that  belongs  to 

15  the  morning  of  life  :  the  sight  of  a  hawk,  the  hearing 
of  a  bat,  almost  the  scent  of  a  hound. 

Indeed,  it  required  a  nose  both  subtle  and  unpreju- 
diced to  understand  and  appreciate  and  thoroughly 
enjoy  that  Paris — not  Paris  of  M.  le  Baron  Hauss- 

2omann,  lighted  by  gas  and  electricity,  and  flushed 
and  drained  by  modern  science  ;  but  the  "  good  old 
Paris  "  of  Balzac  and  Eugene  Sue  and  Les  Mysttres — 
the  Paris  of  dim  oil-lanterns  suspended  from  iron 
gibbets  (where  once  aristocrats  had  been  hung)  ;  of 

25  water-carriers  who  sold  water  from  their  hand-carts, 

and  delivered  it  at  your  door  (au  cinquieme)  for  a  penny 

a  pail — to  drink  of,  and  wash  in,  and  cook  with,  and  all. 

There  were  whole  streets — and  these  by  no  means 

the    least  fascinating    and    romantic — where  the  un- 

30  written  domestic  records  of  every  house  were  afloat 
in  the  air  outside  it — records  not  all  savory  x>r  sweet, 
but  always  full  of  interest  and  charm  I 


26  GEORGE  DU  MAURIER. 

One  knew  at  a  sniff  as  one  passed  the  porU  cochlre 
what  kind  of  people  lived  behind  and  above  ;  what 
they  ate  and  what  they  drank,  and  what  their  trade 
was  ;  whether  they  did  their  washing  at  home,  and 
burned  tallow  or  wax,  and  mixed  chicory  with  their  5 
coffee,  and  were  over-fond  of  Gruyere  cheese — the 
biggest,  cheapest,  plainest,  and  most  formidable  cheese 
in  the  world  ;  whether  they  fried  with  oil  or  butter, 
and  liked  their  omelets  overdone  and  garlic  in  their 
salad,  and  sipped  black-currant  brandy  or  anisette  as  a  10 
liqueur  ;  and  were  overrun  with  mice,  and  used  cats 
or  mouse-traps  to  get  rid  of  them,  or  neither  ;  and 
bought  violets,  or  pinks,  or  gillyflowers  in  season,  and 
kept  them  too  long  ;  and  fasted  on  Friday  with  red  or 
white  beans,  or  lentils,  or  had  a  dispensation  from  15 
the  Pope — or,  haply,  even  dispensed  with  the  Pope's 
dispensation. 

For  of  such  a  telltale  kind  were  the  overtones  in 
that  complex,  odorous  clang. 

I  will  not  define  its  fundamental  note — ever  there,  20 
ever  the  same  ;  big  with  a  warning  of  quick-coming 
woe  to  many  households  ;  whose  unheeded  waves,  slow 
but  sure,  and  ominous  as  those  that  rolled  on  great 
occasions  from  le  Bourdon  de  Notre  Dame  (the  Big 
Ben  of  Paris),  drove  all  over  the  gay  city  and  beyond,  25 
night  and  day — penetrating  every  corner,  overflowing 
the  most  secret  recesses,  drowning  the  very  incense  by 
the  altar-steps. 

"  Le  pauvre  en  sa  cabane  ou  le  chaume  le  couvre 

Est  sujet  a  ses  lois  ;  30 

Et  la  garde  qui  veille  aux  barrieres  du  Louvre 
N'en  defend  point  nos  rois." 


PARIS  BEFORE    THE  SECOND  EMPIRE.        27 

And  here,  as  I  write,  the  faint,  scarcely  perceptible, 
ghost-like  suspicion  of  a  scent — a  mere  nostalgic  fancy, 
compound,  generic,  synthetic  and  all-embracing — an 
abstract  olfactory  symbol  of  the  "  Tout  Paris  "  of  fifty 

5  years  ago,  comes  back  to  me  out  of  the  past ;  and  fain 
would  I  inhale  it  in  all  its  pristine  fulness  and  vigor. 
For  scents,  like  musical  sounds,  are  rare  sublimaters 
of  the  essence  of  memory  (this  is  a  prodigious  fine 
phrase — I  hope  it  means  something),  and  scents  need 

10  not  be  seductive  in  themselves  to  recall  the  seductions 
of  scenes  and  days  gone  by. 

Alas  !  scents  cannot  be  revived  at  will,  like  an 

"  Air  doux  et  tendre 
Jadis  aime  ! " 

{ 

15  Oh,  that  I  could  hum  or  whistle  an  old  French 
smell !  I  could  wake  all  Paris,  sweet,  prae-imperial 
Paris,  in  a  single  whiff ! 


IV. 


JOHN    BURROUGHS. 

From  An  Idyl  of  the  Honey-Bee.1  This  selection  is  essentially 
of  the  same  kind  as  the  preceding,  but  involves  some  exposition. 
It  may  stand  as  typical  of  the  large  body  of  outdoor  sketches 
that  owe  their  force  mainly  to  the  keenness  of  the  author's  observa- 
tion. It  should  be  used  to  stimulate  the  observation  of  the  pupil, 
but  also  to  induce  a  higher  precision  and  aptness  in  recording  the 
results  of  that  observation. 

The  keenness  of  Burroughs's  observation,  and  the  force  and 
aptness  of  his  figures,  contrast  sharply  with  the  weakness  of  his 
occasional  conventionalities  in  diction  and  looseness  in  sentences. 
It  will  be  profitable  for  the  student  to  distinguish  the  excellent 
parts  of  his  description  from  the  parts  where  he  lapses. 

Parallels  will  be  found  in  the  works  of  Richard  Jefferies,  Maurice 
Thompson,  W.  Hamilton  Gibson,  Frank  Bolles,  Bradford  Torrey, 
and  in  the  classic  Natural  History  of  Selborne  (printed  in 
Cassell's  National  Library,  2  vols.,  paper). 

THERE  is  no  creature  with  which  man  has  surrounded 
himself  that  seems  so  much  like  a  product  of  civiliza- 
tion, so  much  like  the  result  of  development  on  special 
lines  and  in  special  fields,  as  the  honey-bee.  Indeed, 
a  colony  of  bees,  with  their  neatness  and  love  of  order, 
their  division  of  labor,  their  public  spiritedness,  their 

1  Printed  by  kind  permission  of  Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  & 
Company,  from  Birds  and  Bees  (Riverside  Literature  Series,  No. 
28,  paper,  fifteen  cents). 


J3EES.  29 

thrift,  their  complex  economies  and  their  inordinate 
love  of  gain,  seems  as  far  removed  from  a  condition  of 
rude  nature  as  does  a  walled  city  or  a  cathedral  town. 
Our  native  bee,  on  the  other  hand,  "the  burly,  dozing 
5  bumble-bee,"  affects  one  more  like  the  rude,  untutored 
savage.  He  has  learned  nothing  from  experience. 
He  lives  from  hand  to  mouth.  He  luxuriates  in  time 
of  plenty,  and  he  starves  in  times  of  scarcity.  He  lives 
in  a  rude  nest  or  in  a  hole  in  the  ground,  and  in  small 
10  communities  ;  he  builds  a  few  deep  cells  or  sacks  in 
which  he  stores  a  little  honey  and  bee-bread  for  his 
young,  but  as  a  worker  in  wax  he  is  of  the  most  primi- 
tive and  awkward.  The  Indian  regarded  the  honey- 
bee as  an  ill-omen.  She  was  the  white  man's  fly.  In 
15  fact  she  was  the  epitome  of  the  white  man  himself. 
She  has  the  white  man's  craftiness,  his  industry,  his 
architectural  skill,  his  neatness  and  love  of  system,  his 
foresight  ;  and  above  all,  his  eager,  miserly  habits.  The 
honey-bee's  great  ambition  is  to  be  rich,  to  lay  up  great 
20  stores,  to  possess  the  sweet  of  every  flower  that  blooms. 
She  is  more  than  provident.  Enough  will  not  satisfy 
her ;  she  must  have  all  she  can  get  by  hook  or  by  crook. 
She  comes  from  the  oldest  country,  Asia,  and  thrives 
best  in  the  most  fertile  and  long-settled  lands. 
25  Yet  the  fact  remains  that  the  honey-bee  is  essentially 
a  wild  creature,  and  never  has  been  and  cannot  be 
thoroughly  domesticated.  Its  proper  home  is  the 
woods,  and  thither  every  new  swarm  counts  on  going  ; 
and  thither  many  do  go  in  spite  of  the  care  and  watch- 
jo  fulness  of  the  bee-keeper.  If  the  woods  in  any  given 
locality  are  deficient  in  trees  with  suitable  cavities,  the 
bees  resort  to  all  sorts  of  makeshifts  ;  they  go  into 


30  JOHN  BURROUGHS. 

chimneys,  into  barns  and  outhouses,  under  stones,  into 
rocks,  and  so  forth.  Several  chimneys  in  my  locality 
with  disused  flues  are  taken  possession  of  by  colonies 
of  bees  nearly  every  season.  One  day,  while  bee- 
hunting,  I  developed  a  line  that  went  toward  a  farm-  5 
house  where  I  had  reason  to  believe  no  bees  were  kept. 
I  followed  it  up  and  questioned  the  farmer  about  his 
bees.  He  said  he  kept  no  bees,  but  that  a  swarm  had 
taken  possession  of  his  chimney,  and  another  had  gone 
under  the  clapboards  in  the  gable  end  of  3iis  house.  10 
He  had  taken  a  large  lot  of  honey  out  of  both  places  the 
year  before.  Another  farmer  told  me  that  one  day  his 
family  had  seen  a  number  of  bees  examining  a  knot- 
hole in  the  side  of  his  house  ;  the  next  day  as  they 
were  sitting  down  to  dinner  their  attention  was  15 
attracted  by  a  loud  humming  noise,  when  they  dis- 
covered a  swarm  of  bees  settling  upon  the  side  of  the 
house  and  pouring  into  the  knot-hole.  In  subsequent 
years  other  swarms  came  to  the  same  place. 

Apparently,  every  swarm  of  bees   before  it  leaves  20 
the  parent  hive  sends  out  exploring  parties  to  look  up 
the  future  home.     The  woods  and  groves  are  searched 
through  and  through,  and   no  doubt  the   privacy  of 
many  a  squirrel  and  many  a  wood  mouse  is  intruded 
upon.     What  cozy  nooks  and    retreats   they  do   spy  25 
out,  so  much  more  attractive  than  the  painted  hive  in 
the  garden,  so  much  cooler  in  summer  and  so  much 
warmer  in  winter  ! 

The  bee  is   in   the  main  an    honest    citizen  ;    she 
prefers    legitimate    to   illegitimate    business;    she    is 30 
never  an  outlaw   until  her  proper  sources  of  supply 
fail  ;  she  will  not  touch  honey  as  long  as  honey-yield- 


BEES.  31 

ing  flowers  can  be  found  ;  she  always  prefers  to  go  to 
the  fountain-head,  and  dislikes  to  take  her  sweets  at 
second  hand.  But  in  the  fall,  after  the  flowers  have 
failed,  she  can  be  tempted.  The  bee-hunter  takes 

5  advantage  of  this  fact  ;  he  betrays  her  with  a  little 
honey.  He  wants  to  steal  her  stores,  and  he  first  en- 
courages her  to  steal  his,  then  follows  the  thief  home 
with  her  booty.  This  is  the  whole  trick  of  the  bee- 
hunter.  The  bees  never  suspect  his  game,  else  by 

10  taking  a  circuitous  route  they  could  easily  baffle  him. 

,  But  the  honey-bee  has  absolutely  no  wit  or  cunning 
outside  of  her  special  gifts  as  a  gatherer  and  storer 
of  honey.  She  is  a  simple-minded  creature,  and  can 
be  imposed  upon  by  any  novice.  Yet  it  is  not  every 

15  novice  that  can  find  a  bee-tree.  The  sportsman  may 
track  his  game  to  its  retreat  by  the  aid  of  his  dog, 
but  in  hunting  the  honey-bee  one  must  be  his  own 
dog,  and  track  his  game  through  an  element  in  which 
it  leaves  no  trail.  It  is  a  task  for  a  sharp,  quick  eye, 

20  and  may  test  the  resources  of  the  best  wood-craft. 
One  autumn,  when  I  devoted  much  time  to  this  pur- 
suit, as  the  best  means  of  getting  at  nature  and  the 
open-air  exhilaration,  my  eye  became  so  trained  that 
bees  were  nearly  as  easy  to  it  as  birds.  I  saw  and 

25  heard  bees  wherever  I  went.  One  day,  standing  on 
a  street  corner  in' a  great  city,  I  saw  above  the  trucks 
and  the  traffic  a  line  of  bees  carrying  off  sweets  from 
some  grocery  or  confectionery  shop. 

One  looks  upon  the  woods  with  a  new  interest  when 

30  he  suspects  they  hold  a  colony  of  bees.  What  a  pleas- 
ing secret  it  is  ;  a  tree  with  a  heart  of  comb-honey,  a 
decayed  oak  or  maple  with  a  bit  of  Sicily  or  Mount 


32  JOHN  BURROUGHS. 

Hymettus  stowed  away  in  its  trunk  or  branches ; 
secret  chambers  where  lies  hidden  the  wealth  of  ten 
thousand  little  freebooters,  great  nuggets  and  wedges 
of  precious  ore  gathered  with  risk  and  labor  from 
e^ery  field  and  wood  about.  5 

But  if  you  would  know  the  delights  of  bee-hunting, 
and  how  many  sweets  such  a  trip  yields  besides  honey, 
come  with  me  some  bright,  warm,  late  September  or 
early  October  day.  It  is  the  golden  season  of  the 
year,  and  any  errand  or  pursuit  that  takes  us  abroad  10 
upon  the  hills  or  by  the  painted  woods  and  along  the 
amber-colored  streams  at  such  a  time  is  enough.  So, 
with  haversacks  filled  with  grapes  and  peaches  and 
apples  and  a  bottle  of  milk — for  we  shall  not  be  home 
to  dinner — and  armed  with  a  compass,  a  hatchet,  a  15 
pail,  and  a  box  with  a  piece  of  comb-honey  neatly 
fitted  into  it — any  box  the  size  of  your  hand  with  a 
lid  will  do  nearly  as  well  as  the  elaborate  and  inge- 
nious contrivance  of  the  regular  bee-hunter — we  sally 
forth.  Our  course  at  first  lies  along  the  highway,  20 
under  great  chestnut-trees  whose  nuts  are  just  drop- 
ping, then  through  an  orchard  and  across  a  little 
creek,  thence  gently  rising  through  a  long  series  of 
cultivated  fields  toward  some  high,  uplying  land,  be- 
hind which  rises  a  rugged  wooded  ridge  or  mountain,  25 
the  most  sightly  point  in  all  this  section.  Behind  this 
ridge  for  several  miles  the  country  is  wild,  wooded, 
and  rocky,  and  is  no  doubt  the  home  of  many  wild 
swarms  of  bees.  What  a  gleeful  uproar  the  robins, 
cedar-birds,  high-holes,  and  cow  black-birds  make  30 
amid  the  black  cherry-trees  as  we  pass  along.  The 
raccoons,  too,  have  been  here  after  black  cherries,  and 


BEES.  33 

we  see  their  marks  at  various  points.  Several  crows 
are  walking  about  a  newly-sowed  wheat  field  we  pass 
through,  and  we  pause  to  note  their  graceful  move- 
ments and  glossy  coats.  I  have  seen  no  bird  walk 
5  the  ground  with  just  the  same  air  the  crow  does.  It 
is  not  exactly  pride  ;  there  is  no  strut  or  swagger  in 
i;,  though,  perhaps,  just  a  little  condescension  ;  it  is 
the  contented,  complaisant,  and  self-possessed  gait  of 
a  lord  over  his  domains.  All  these  acres  are  mine,  he 

10  says,  and  all  these  crops  ;  men  plow  and  sow  for  me, 
and  I  stay  here  or  go  there,  and  find  life  sweet  and 
good  wherever  I  am.  The  hawk  looks  awkward  and 
out  of  place  on  the  ground  ;  the  game  birds  hurry 
and  skulk,  but  the  crow  is  at  home  and  treads  the 

15  earth  as  if  there  were  none  to  molest  or  make  him 
afraid. 

The  crows  we  have  always  with  us,  but  it  is  not 
every  day  or  every  season  that  one  sees  an  eagle. 
Hence  I  must  preserve  the  memory  of  one  I  saw  the 

20  last  day  I  went  bee-hunting.  As  I  was  laboring  up 
the  side  of  a  mountain  at  the  head  of  a  valley,  the 
noble  bird  sprang  from  the  top  of  a  dry  tree  above 
me  and  came  sailing  directly  over  my  head.  I  saw 
him  bend  his  eye  down  upon  me,  and  I  could  hear 

25  the  low  hum  of  his  plumage,  as  if  the  web  of  every 
quill  in  his  great  wings  vibrated  in  his  strong,  level 
flight.  I  watched  him  as  long  as  my  eye  could  hold 
him.  When  he  was  fairly  clear  of  the  mountain  he 
began  that  sweeping  spiral  movement  in  which  he 

30  climbs  the  sky.  Up  and  up  he  went  without  once 
breaking  his  majestic  poise  till  he  appeared  to  sight 
some  far-off  alien  geography,  when  he  bent  his  course 


34  JOHN  BURROUGHS. 

thitherward,  and  gradually  vanished  in  the  blue  depths. 
The  eagle  is  a  bird  of  large  ideas,  he  embraces  long 
distances  ;  the  continent  is  his  home.  I  never  look 
upon  one  without  emotion  ;  I  follow  him  with  my 
eye  as  long  as  I  can.  I  think  of  Canada,  of  the  * 
Great  Lakes,  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  of  the  wild 
and  sounding  seacoast.  The  waters  are  his,  and  the 
woods  and  the  inaccessible  cliffs.  He  pierces  behind 
the  veil  of  the  storm,  and  his  joy  is  height  and  depth 
and  vast  spaces.  10 

We  go  out  of  our  way  to  touch  at  a  spring  run  in 
the  edge  of  the  woods,  and  are  lucky  to  find  a  single 
scarlet  lobelia  lingering  there.  It  seems  almost  to 
light  up  the  gloom  with  its  intense  bit  of  color.  Be- 
side a  ditch  in  a  field  beyond  we  find  the  great  blue  15 
lobelia  (Lobelia  syphiliticd),  and  near  it  amid  the  weeds 
and  wild  grasses  and  purple  asters  the  most  beautiful 
of  our  fall  flowers,  the  fringed  gentian.  What  a  rare 
and  delicate,  almost  aristocratic  look  the  gentian  has 
amid  its  coarse,  unkempt  surroundings.  It  does  not  20 
lure  the  bee,  but  it  lures  and  holds  every  passing 
human  eye.  If  we  strike  through  the  corner  of 
yondrr  woods,  where  the  ground  is  moistened  by 
hidden  springs,  and  where  there  is  a  little  opening 
amid  the  trees,  we  shall  find  the  closed  gentian,  a  rare  25 
flower  in  this  locality.  I  had  walked  this  way  many 
tiir~s  before  I  chanced  upon  its  retreat  ;  and  then  I 
was  following  a  line  of  bees.  I  lost  the  bees,  but  I 
got  the  gentians.  How  curiously  this  flower  looks, 
with  its  deep  blue  petals  folded  together  so  tightly — a  30 
bud  and  yet  a  blossom.  It  is  the  nun  among  our  wild 
flowers,  a  form  closely  veiled  and  cloaked.  The 


BEES.  35 

buccaneer  bumble-bee  sometimes  tries  to  rifle  it  of  its 
sweets.  I  have  seen  the  blossom  with  the  bee  en- 
tombed in  it.  He  had  forced  his  way  into  the  virgin 
corolla  as  if  determined  to  know  its  secret,  but  he  had 
5  never  returned  with  the  knowledge  he  had  gained. 

After  a  refreshing  walk  of  a  couple  of  miles  we 
reach  a  point  where  we  will  make  our  first  trial — a 
high  stone  wall  that  runs  parallel  with  the  wooded 
ridge  referred  to,  and  separated  from  it  by  a  broad 

10  field.  There  are  bees  at  work  there  on  that  golden- 
rod,  and  it  requires  but  little  manoeuvring  to  sweep 
one  into  our  box.  Almost  any  other  creature  rudely 
and  suddenly  arrested  in  its  career  and  clapped  into 
a  cage  in  this  way  would  show  great,  confusion  and 

15  alarm.  The  bee  is  alarmed  for  a  moment,  but  the  bee 
has  a  passion  stronger  than  its  love  of  life  or  fear  of 
death,  namely,  desire  for  honey,  not  simply  to  eat, 
but  to  carry  home  as  booty.  "  Such  rage  of  honey  in 
their  bosom  beats,"  says  Virgil.  It  is  quick  to  catch 

20  the  scent  of  honey  in  the  box,  and  as  quick  to  fall 
to  filling  itself.  We  now  set  the  box  down  upon  the 
wall  and  gently  remove  the  cover.  The  bee  is  head 
and  shoulders  in  one  of  the  half-filled  cells,  and  is 
oblivious  to  everything  else  about  it.  Come  rack, 

25  come  ruin,  it  will  die  at  work.  We  step  back  a  few 
paces,  and  sit  down  upon  the  ground,  so  as  to  bring 
the  box  against  the  blue  sky  as  a  background.  In 
two  or  three  minutes  the  bee  is  seen  rising  slowly 
and  heavily  from  the  box.  It  seems  loath  to  leave  so 

30  much  honey  behind  and  it  marks  the  place  well.  It 
mounts  aloft  in  a  rapidly  increasing  spiral,  surveying 
the  near  and  minute  objects  first,  then  the  larger  and 


36  JOHN  BURROUGHS. 

more  distant,  till  having  circled  about  the  spot  five 
or  six  times  and  taken  all  its  bearings  it  darts  away 
for  home.  It  is  a  good  eye  that  holds  fast  to  the  bee 
till  it  is  fairly  off.  Sometimes  one's  head  will  swim 
following  it,  and  often  one's  eyes  are  put  out  by  the  5 
sun.  This  bee  gradually  drifts  down  the  hill,  then 
strikes  away  toward  a  farm-house  half  a  mile  away, 
where  I  know  bees  are  kept.  Then  we  try  another 
and  another,  and  the  third  bee,  much  to  our  satisfac- 
tion, goes  straight  toward  the  woods.  We  could  see  10 
the  brown  speck  against  the  darker  background  for 
many  yards.  The  regular  bee-hunter  professes  to  be 
able  to  tell  a  wild  bee  from  a  tame  one  by  the  color, 
the  former,  he  says,  being  lighter.  But  there  is  no 
difference  ;  they  are  both  alike  in  color  and  in  man- 15 
ner.  Young  bees  are  lighter  that  old,  and  that  is 
all  there  is  of  it.  If  a  bee  lived  many  years  in  the 
woods  it  would  doubtless  come  to  have  some  distin- 
guishing marks,  but  the  life  of  a  bee  is  only  a  few 
months  at  the  farthest,  and  no  change  is  wrought  in  20 
this  brief  time. 

Our  bees  are  all  soon  back,  and  more  with  them, 
for  we  have  touched  the  box  here  and  there  with  the 
cork  of  a  bottle  of  anise  oil,  and  this  fragrant  and 
pungent  oil  will  attract  bees  half  a  mile  or  more.  25 
When  no  flowers  can  be  found,  this  is  the  quickest 
way  to  obtain  a  bee. 

It  is  a  singular  fact  that  when  the  bee  first  finds 
the  hunter's  box  its  first  feeling  is  one  of  anger  ;  it 
is  as  mad  as  a  hornet ;  its  tone  changes,  it  sounds  its  30 
shrill  war  trumpet  and  darts  to  and  fro,  and  gives 
vent  to  its  rage  and  indignation  in  no  uncertain  man- 


BEES.  37 

ner.  It  seems  to  scent  foul  play  at  once.  It  says, 
"  Here  is  robbery  ;  here  is  the  spoil  of  some  hive, 
may  be  my  own,"  and  its  blood  is  up.  But  its  ruling 
passion  soon  comes  to  the  surface,  its  avarice  gets 
5  the  better  of  its  indignation,  and  it  seems  to  say, 
"  Well,  I  had  better  take  possession  of  this  and  carry 
it  home."  So  after  many  feints  and  approaches  and 
dartings  off  with  a  loud  angry  hum  as  if  it  would 
none  of  it,  the  bee  settles  down  and  fills  itself. 

10  It  does  not  entirely  cool  off  and  get  soberly  to 
work  till  it  has  made  two  or  three  trips  home  with 
its  booty.  When  other  bees  come,  even  if  all  from 
the  same  swarm,  they  quarrel  and  dispute  over  the 
box,  and  clip  and  dart  at  each  other  like  bantam 

15  cocks.  Apparently  the  ill  feeling  which  the  sight  of 
the  honey  awakens  is  not  one  of  jealousy  or  rivalry, 
but  wrath. 

•  •  •  •  • 

When  a  bee-tree  is  thus  "  taken  up"  in  the  middle 
of  the  day,  of  course  a  good  many  bees  are  away  from 

20  home  and  have  not  heard  the  news.  When  they  re- 
turn and  find  the  ground  flowing  with  honey,  and 
piles  of  bleeding  combs  lying  about,  they  apparently 
do  not  recognize  the  place,  and  their  first  instinct  is 
to  fall  to  and  fill  themselves  ;  this  done,  their  next 

25  thought  is  to  carry  it  home,  so  they  rise  up  slowly 
through  the  branches  of  the  trees  till  they  have  at- 
tained an  altitude  that  enables  them  to  survey  the 
scene,  when  they  seem  to  say,  "Why,  this  is  home," 
and  down  they  come  again  ;  beholding  the  wreck  and 

30  ruins  once  more  they  still  think  there  is  some  mistake, 
and  get  up  a  second  or  third  time  and  then  drop  back 


38  JOHN  BURROUGHS. 

pitifully  as  before.  It  is  the  most  pathetic  sight  of  all, 
the  surviving  and  bewildered  bees  struggling  to  save 
a  few  drops  of  their  wasted  treasures. 

Presently,  if  there  is  another  swarm  in  the  woods, 
robber-bees  appear.  You  may  know  them  by  their  5 
saucy,  chiding,  devil-may-care  hum.  It  is  an  ill  wind 
that  blows  nobody  good,  and  they  make  the  most  of 
the  misfortune  of  their  neighbors  ;  and  thereby  pave 
the  way  for  their  own  ruin.  The  hunter  marks  their 
course  and  the  next  day  looks  them  up.  On  this  oc- 10 
casion  the  day  was  hot  and  the  honey  very  fragrant, 
and  a  line  of  bees  was  soon  established  S.  S.  W. 
Though  there  was  much  refuse  honey  in  the  old  stub, 
and  though  little  golden  rills  trickled  down  the  hill 
from  it,  and  the  near  branches  and  saplings  were  be- 15 
smeared  with  it  where  we  wiped  our  murderous  hands, 
yet  not  a  drop  was  wasted.  It  was  a  feast  to  which 
not  only  honey-bees  came,  but  bumble-bees,  wasps, 
hornets,  flies,  ants.  The  bumble-bees,  which  at  this 
season  are  hungry  vagrants  with  no  fixed  place  of  20 
abode,  would  gorge  themselves,  then  creep  beneath 
the  bits  of  empty  comb  or  fragments  of  bark  and 
pass  the  night,  and  renew  the  feast  next  day.  The 
bumble-bee  is  an  insect  of  which  the  bee-hunter  sees 
much.  There  are  all  sorts  and  sizes  of  them.  They  25 
are  dull  and  clumsy  compared  with  the  honey-bee. 
Attracted  in  the  fields  by  the  bee-hunter's  box,  they 
will  come  up  the  wind  on  the  scent  and  blunder  into 
it  in  the  most  stupid,  lubberly  fashion. 

The  honey-bees  that  licked  up  our  leavings  on  the  30 
old  stub  belonged  to  a  swarm,  as  it  proved,  about  half 
a  mile  farther  down  the  ridge,  and  a  few  days  after- 


BEES.  39 

ward  fate  overtook  them,  and  their  stores  in  turn 
became  the  prey  of  another  swarm  in  the  vicinity, 
which  also  tempted  Providence  and  were  overwhelmed. 
The  first  mentioned  swarm  I  had  lined  from  several 
5  points,  and  was  following  up  the  clew  over  rocks  and 
through  gulleys,  when  I  came  to  where  a  large  hem- 
lock had  been  felled  a  few  years  before  and  a  swarm 
taken  from  a  cavity  near  the  top  of  it  ;  fragments  of 
the  old  comb  were  yet  to  be  seen.  A  few  yards  away 

lo  stood  another  short,  squatty  hemlock,  and  I  said  my 
bees  ought  to  be  there.  As  I  paused  near  it  I  noticed 
where  the  tree  had  been  wounded  with  an  ax  a  couple 
of  feet  from  the  ground  many  years  before.  The 
wound  had  partially  grown  over,  but  there  was  an 

15  opening  there  that  I  did  not  see  at  the  first  glance.  I 
was  about  to  pass  on  when  a  bee  passed  me  making 
that  peculiar  shrill,  discordant  hum  that  a  bee  makes 
when  besmeared  with  honey.  I  saw  it  alight  in  the 
partially  closed  wound  and  crawl  home  ;  then  came 

20  others  and  others,  little  bands  and  squads  of  them 
heavily  freighted  with  honey  from  the  box.  The  tree 
was  about  twenty  inches  through  and  hollow  at  the 
butt,  or  from  the  ax  mark  down.  This  space  the  bees 
had  completely  filled  with  honey.  With  an  ax  we  cut 

25  away  the  outer  ring  of  live   wood  and  exposed  the 

treasure.     Despite  the  utmost  care,  we  wounded  the 

comb  so  that  little  rills  of  the  golden  liquid  issued 

from  the  root  of  the  tree  and  trickled  down  the  hill. 

The  other  bee-tree  in  the  vicinity,  to  which  I  have 

30  referred,  we  found  one  warm  November  day  in  less 
than  half  an  hour  after  entering  the  woods.  It  also 
was  a  hemlock,  that  stood  in  a  niche  in  a  wall  of 


40  JOHN  BURROUGHS. 

hoary,  moss-covered  rocks  thirty  feet  high.  The  tree 
hardly  reached  to  the  top  of  the  precipice.  The  bees 
entered  a  small  hole  at  the  root,  which  was  seven  or 
eight  feet  from  the  ground.  The  position  was  a  strik- 
ing one.  Never  did  apiary  have  a  finer  outlook  or  5 
more  rugged  surroundings.  A  black,  wood-embraced 
lake  lay  at  our  feet  ;  the  long  panorama  of  the  Cats- 
kills  filled  the  far  distance,  and  the  more  broken  out- 
lines of  the  Shawangunk  range  filled  the  rear.  On 
every  hand  were  precipices  and  a  wild  confusion  of  10 
rocks  and  trees. 

The  cavity  occupied  by  the  bees  was  about  three 
feet  and  a  half  long  and  eight  or  ten  inches  in  diam- 
eter. With  an  ax  we  cut  away  one  side  of  the  tree 
and  laid  bare  its  curiously  wrought  heart  of  honey.  It  15 
was  a  most  pleasing  sight.  What  winding  and  devi- 
ous ways  the  bees  had  through  their  palace  !  What 
great  masses  and  blocks  of  show-white  comb  there 
were !  Where  it  was  sealed  up,  presenting  that 
slightly  dented,  uneven  surface,  it  looked  like  some  20 
precious  ore.  When  we  carried  a  large  pail  full  of  it 
out  of  the  woods,  it  seemed  still  more  like  ore. 


V. 

Gbe  fcarfeb  of  Selborne. 
GILBERT   WHITE. 

From  the  Natural  History  of  Selborne  (i).  This  selection  is 
an  instance  of  enumerative  description,  with  simple  grouping  of 
details  (p.  xxi).  The  purpose  is  expository,  the  diction  remarka- 
ble for  its  precision  and  simplicity. 

THE  parish  of  Selborne  lies  in  the  extreme  eastern 
corner  of  the  county  of  Hampshire,  bordering  on  the 
county  of  Sussex,  and  not  far  from  the  county  of 
Surrey  ;  is  about  fifty  miles  southwest  of  London,  in 

5  latitude  fifty-one,  and  near  midway  between  the 
towns  of  Alton  and  Petersfield.  Being  very  large  and 
extensive,  it  abuts  on  twelve  parishes,  two  of  which 
are  in  Sussex,  viz.,  Trotton  and  Rogate.  If  you  begin 
from  the  south  and  proceed  westward,  the  adjacent 

10  parishes  are  Emshot,  Newton  Valence,  Faringdon, 
Hartely-Mauduit,  Great  Wardleham,  Kingsley,  Hed- 
leigh,  Bramshot,  Trotton,  Rogate,  Lysse,  and  Great- 
ham.  The  soils  of  this  district  are  almost  as  various 
and  diversified  as  the  views  and  aspects.  The 

15  high  part  of  the  southwest  consists  of  a  vast  hill  of 
chalk,  rising  three  hundred  feet  above  the  village,  and 
is  divided  into  a  sheep-down,  the  high  wood,  and  a 
long  hanging  wood  called  The  Hanger.  The  covert 
of  this  eminence  is  altogether  beech,  the  most  lovely  of 


42  GILBERT   WHITE. 

all  forest  trees,  whether  we  consider  its  smooth  rind 
or  bark,  its  glossy  foliage,  or  graceful  pendulous 
boughs.  The  down,  or  sheep-walk,  is  a  pleasant,  park- 
like  spot,  of  about  one  mile  by  half  that  space,  jutting 
out  on  the  verge  of  the  hill-country,  where  it  begins  to  5 
break  down  into  the  plains,  and  commanding  a  very 
engaging  view,  being  an  assemblage  of  hill,  dale,  wood- 
lands, heath,  and  water.  The  prospect  is  bounded  io 
the  southeast  and  east  by  the  vast  range  of  mountains 
called  the  Sussex  downs,  by  Guild-down  near  Guild- 10 
ford,  and  by  the  downs  round  Dorking,  and  Ryegate 
in  Surrey,  to  the  northeast,  which  altogether,  with  the 
country  beyond  Alton  and  Farnham,  form  a  noble  andi 
extensive  outline. 

At  the  foot  of  this  hill,  one  stage  or  step  from  the  15 
uplands,  lies  the  village,  which  consists  of  one  single 
straggling  street,  three-quarters  of  a  mile  in  length,  in 
a  sheltered  vale,  and  running  parallel  with  the  Hanger. 
The  houses  are  divided  from  the  hill  by  a  vein  of  stiff 
clay  (good  wheat  land),  yet  stand  on  a  rock  of  white  2o> 
stone,  little  in  appearance  removed  from  chalk  ;  but 
seems  so  far  from  being  calcareous,  that  it  endures 
extreme  heat.     Yet  that  the  freestone  still  preserves; 
somewhat  that  is  analogous  to  chalk,  is  plain  from  the- 
beeches,  which  descend  as  low  as  those  rocks  extend,  25 
and  no  farther,  and  thrive  as  well  on  them,  where  the 
ground  is  steep,  as  on  the  chalks. 

The  cart-way  of  the  village  divides,  in  a  remarkable 
manner,  two  very  incongruous   soils.     To   the   south- 
west is  a  rank  clay,  that  requires  the  labour  of  years  30: 
to  render  it  mellow  ;  while  the  gardens  to  the  north- 
east, and  small  enclosures  behind,  consist  of  a  warm, 


THE  PARISH  OP  SELBORNE.  43 

forward,  crumbling  mould,  called  black  malm,  which 
seems  highly  saturated  with  vegetable  and  animal 
manure  :  and  these  may  perhaps  have  been  the  orig- 
inal site  of  the  town  ;  while  the  woods  and  coverts 
5  might  extend  down  to  the  opposite  bank. 

At  each  end  of  the  village,  which  runs  from  south- 
east to  northwest,  arises  a  small  rivulet  :  that  at  the 
northwest  end  frequently  fails  ;  but  the  other  is  a  fine 
perennial  spring,  little  influenced  by  drought  or  wet 

10  seasons,  called  Well-head.  This  breaks  out  of  some 
high  grounds  joining  to  Nore  Hill,  a  noble  chalk  prom- 
ontory, remarkable  for  sending  forth  two  streams  into 
two  different  seas.  The  one  to  the  south  becomes 
a  branch  of  the  Arun,  running  to  Arundel,  and  so  sail- 

15  ing  into  the  British  Channel  :  the  other  to  the  north. 
The  Selborne  stream  makes  one  branch  of  the  Wey  ; 
and,  meeting  the  Black-down  stream  at  Hedleigh,  and 
the  Alton  and  Farnham  stream  at  Tilford-bridge, 
swells  into  a  considerable  river,  navigable  at  Godal- 

soming  ;  from  whence  it  passes  toGuildford,  and  so  into 
the  Thames  at  Weybridge  ;  and  thus  at  the  Nore  into 
the  German  Ocean. 

Our  wells,  at  an  average,  run  to  about  sixty-three 
feet,  and  when  sunk  to  that  depth  seldom  fail  ;  but 

25  produce  a  fine  limpid  water,  soft  to  the  taste,  and 
much  commended  by  those  who  drink  the  pure  ele- 
ment, but  which  does  not  lather  well  with  soap. 

To  the  northwest,  north  and  east  of  the  village,  is  a 
range  of  fair  enclosures,  consisting  of  what  is  called  a 

30  white  malm,  a  sort  of  rotten  or  rubble  stone,  which 
when  turned  up  to  the  frost  and  rain,  moulders  to 
pieces,  and  becomes  manure  to  itself. 


44  GILBERT   WHITE. 

Still  on  to  the  northeast,  and  a  step  lower,  is  a  kind 
of  white  land,  neither  chalk  nor  clay,  neither  fit  for 
pasture  nor  for  the  plough,  yet  kindly  for  hops,  which 
root  deep  into  the  freestone,  and  have  their  poles  and 
wood  for  charcoal  growing  just  at  hand.  The  white  5 
soil  produces  the  brightest  hops. 

As  the  parish  still  inclines  down  towards  Wolmer 
Forest,  at  the  juncture  of  the  clays  and  sand  the  soil 
becomes  a  wet,  sandy  loam,  remarkable  for  timber, 
and  infamous  for  roads.  The  oaks  of  Temple  and  10 
Blackmoor  stand  high  in  the  estimation  of  purveyors, 
and  have  furnished  much  naval  timber  ;  while  the  trees 
on  the  freestone  grow  large,  but  are  what  workmen  call 
shaky,  and  so  brittle  as  often  to  fall  to  pieces  in  sawing. 
Beyond  the  sandy  loam  the  soil  becomes  a  hungry,  15 
lean  sand,  till  it  mingles  with  the  forest ;  and  will  pro- 
duce little  without  the  assistance  of  lime  and  turnipa 


VI. 


EDWARD  GIBBON. 

From  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire  (cap.  xvii). 
This  is  a  more  formal  and  elaborate  example  of  the  kind  of  de« 
scription  seen  in  Selection  V.  Note  the  carefulness  of  the  plan 
(p.  xxiii),  the  principle  followed  in  the  selection  of  details,  the 
conciseness  inherent  in  the  precision  of  the  epithets. 

IF  we  survey  Byzantium  in  the  extent  which  it  ac- 
quired with  the  august  name  of  Constantinople,  the 
figure  of  the  Imperial  city  maybe  represented  under 
that  of  an  unequal  triangle.  The  obtuse  point,  which 

5  advances  towards  the  East  and  the  shores  of  Asia, 
meets  and  repels  the  waves  of  the  Thracian  Bosphorus. 
The  northern  side  of  the  city  is  bounded  by  the  har- 
bour, and  the  southern  is  washed  by  the  Propontis  or 
Sea  of  Marmora.  The  basis  of  the  triangle  is  opposed 

10  to  the  West,  and  terminates  the  continent  of  Europe. 

But   the  admirable  form  and  division  of  the  circum- 

jacent land  and  water  cannot,  without  a  more  ample 

explanation,  be  clearly  or  sufficiently  understood. 

The  winding  channel  through  which  the  waters  of 

15  the  Euxine  flow  with  a  rapid  and  incessant  course 
towards  the  Mediterranean  received  the  appellation  of 
Bosphorus,  a  name  not  less  celebrated  in  the  history 
than  in  the  fables  of  antiquity.  A  crowd  of  temples 

45 


46  EDWARD  GIBBON. 

and  of  votive  altars,  profusely  scattered  along  its  steep 
and  woody  banks,  attested  the  unskilfulness,  the 
terrors,  and  the  devotion. of  the  Grecian  navigators 
who,  after  the  example  of  the  Argonauts,  explored  the 
dangers  of  the  inhospitable  Euxine.  On  these  banks  5 
tradition  long  preserved  the  memory  of  the  palace  of 
Phineus,  infested  by  the  obscene  harpies ;  and  of  the 
sylvan  reigr.  of  Amycus,  who  defied  the  son  of  Leda 
to  the  combat  of  the  Cestus.  The  straits  of  the  Bos- 
phorus  are  terminated  by  the  Cyanean  rocks,  which,  10 
according  to  the  description  of  the  poets,  had  once 
floated  on  the  face  of  the  waters,  and  were  destined 
by  the  gods  to  protect  the  entrance  of  the  Euxine 
against  the  eye  of  profane  curiosity.  From  the 
Cyanean  rocks  to  the  point  and  harbour  of  Byzan- 15 
tium  the  winding  length  of  the  Bosphorus  extends 
about  sixteen  miles,  and  its  most  ordinary  breadth  may 
be  computed  at  about  one  mile  and  a  half.  The  new 
castles  of  Europe  and  Asia  are  constructed,  on  either 
continent,  upon  the  foundations  of  two  celebrated  20 
temples,  of  Serapis  and  of  Jupiter  Urius.  The  old 
castles,  a  work  of  the  Greek  emperors,  command  the 
narrowest  part  of  the  channel,  in  a  place  where  the 
opposite  banks  advance  within  five  hundred  paces 
of  each  other.  These  fortresses  were  restored  and  25 
strengthened  by  Mahomet  the  Second  when  he  medi- 
tated the  seige  of  Constantinople  :  but  the  Turkish 
conqueror  was  most  probably  ignorant  that,  near  two 
thousand  years  before  his  reign,  Darius  had  chosen 
the  same  situation  to  connect  the  two  continents  by  a  30 
bridge  of  boats.  At  a  small  distance  from  the  old 
castles  we  discover  the  little  town  of  Chrysopolis,  or 


BYZANTIUM.  47 

Scutari,  which  may  almost  be  considered  as  the  Asi- 
atic suburb  of  Constantinople.  The  Bosphorus,  as  it 
begins  to  open  into  the  Propontis,  passes  between 
Byzantium  and  Chalcedon.  The  latter  of  these  cities 
5  was  built  by  the  Greeks  a  few  years  before  the  former  ; 
and  the  blindness  of  its  founders,  who  overlooked  the 
superior  advantages  of  the  opposite  coast,  has  been 
stigmatized  by  a  proverbial  expression  of  contempt. 

The  harbour  of  Constantinople,  which  may  be  con- 
losidered  as  an  arm  of  the    Bosphorus,  obtained,  in  a 
very  remote  period,  the  denomination  of  the  Golden 
Horn.     The  curve  which  it  describes  might  be  com- 
pared to  the  horn  of  a  stag,  or  as  it  should  seem,  with 
more   propriety,  to    that  of  an  ox.     The    epithet    of 
15 golden  was  expressive  of  the  riches  which  every  wind 
wafted  from  the  most  distant  countries  into  the  secure 
and    capacious    port    of   Constantinople.     The    river 
Lycus,  formed  by  the  conflux  of  two  little    streams, 
pours   into  the   harbour  a  perpetual    supply  of  fresh 
20  water,  which  serves  to  cleanse  the  bottom  and  to  in- 
vite the  periodical  shoals  of  fish  to  seek  their  retreat 
in  that  convenient  recess.     As  the  vicissitudes  of  tides 
are  scarcely  felt  in  those  seas,  the  constant  depth  of 
the  harbour  allows  goods  to  be  landed  on  the  quays 
25  without  the  assistance  of  boats  ;  and  it  has  been  ob- 
served- that,  in  many  places,  the  largest  vessels  may 
rest  their  prows  against  the  houses  while  their  sterns 
are    floating  in  the   water.     From   the  mouth  of  the 
Lycus  to  that  of  the  harbour   this  arm  of  the    Bos- 
jo  phorus    is    more    than    seven    miles    in    length.     The 
entrance  is  about  five    hundred    yards   broad,  and  a 
strong  chain  could  be  occasionally  drawn  across  it  to 


48  EDWAKD   GIBBON. 

guard  the  port  and  city  from  the  attack  of  an  hostile 
navy. 

Between  the  Bosphorus  and  the  Hellespont,  the 
shores  of  Europe  and  Asia  receding  on  either  side  en- 
close the  Sea  of  Marmora,  which  was  known  to  the  5 
ancients  by  the  denomination  of  Propontis.  The 
navigation  from  the  issue  of  the  Bosphorus  to  the  en- 
trance of  the  Hellespont  is  about  one  hundred  and 
twenty  miles.  Those  who  steer  their  westward  course 
through  the  middle  of  the  Propontis  may  at  once  10 
descry  the  high  lands  of  Thrace  and  Bithynia,  and 
never  lose  sight  of  the  lofty  summit  of  Mount  Olym- 
pus, covered  with  eternal  snows.  They  leave  on  the 
left  a  deep  gulf,  at  the  bottom  of  which  Nicomedia 
was  seated,  the  imperial  residence  of  Diocletian  ;  and  15 
they  pass  the  small  islands  of  Cyzicus  and  Procon- 
nesus  before  they  cast  anchor  at  Gallipoli,  where  the 
sea,  which  separates  Asia  from  Europe,  is  again  con- 
tracted into  a  narrow  channel. 

The  geographers  who,  with  the  most  skilful  accuracy,  20 
have  surveyed  the  form  and  extent  of  the  Hellespont, 
assign  about  sixty  miles  for  the  winding  course,  and 
about  three  miles  for  the  ordinary  breadth,  of  those 
celebrated  straits.      But   the   narrowest    part   of  the 
channel  is  found  to  the  northward  of  the  old  Turkish  25 
castles,  between  the  cities  of  Sestus  and  Abydus.     It 
was  here  that  the  adventurous   Leander  braved   the 
passage  of  the  flood  for  the  possession  of  his  mistress. 
It  was  here   likewise,  in  a  place  where  the  distance 
between  the  opposite  banks  cannot  exceed  five  hun-  30 
dred  paces,  that  Xerxes  imposed  a  stupendous  bridge 
of  boats,  for  the  purpose  of  transporting  into  Europe 


BYZANTIUM.  49 

a  hundred  and  seventy  myriads  of  barbarians.  A  sea 
contracted  within  such  narrow  limits  may  seem  but 
ill  to  deserve  the  singular  epithet  of  broad,  which 
Homer,  as  well  as  Orpheus,  has  frequently  bestowed 
Son  the  Hellespont.  But  our  ideas  of  greatness  are  of 
a  relative  nature  :  the  traveller,  and  especially  the 
poet,  who  sailed  along  the  Hellespont,  who  pursued 
the  windings  of  the  stream,  and  contemplated  the 
rural  scenery,  which  appeared  on  every  side  to  ter- 

lominate  the  prospect,  insensibly  lost  the  remembrance 
of  the  sea ;  and  his  fancy  painted  those  celebrated 
straits  with  all  the  attributes  of  a  mighty  river,  flowing 
with  a  swift  current,  in  the  midst  of  a  woody  and  in- 
land country,  and  at  length,  through  a  wide  mouthv 

15  discharging  itself  into  the  ^Egean  or  Archipelago. 
Ancient  Troy,  seated  on  an  eminence  at  the  foot  of 
Mount  Ida,  overlooked  the  mouth  of  the  Hellespont, 
which  scarcely  received  an  accession  of  waters  from 
the  tribute  of  those  immortal  rivulets  the  Simois  and 

20  Scamander.  The  Grecian  camp  had  stretched  twelve 
miles  along  the  shore,  from  the  Sigean  to  the  Rhcetean 
promontory  ;  and  the  flanks  of  the  army  were  guarded 
by  the  bravest  chiefs  who  fought  under  the  banners  of 
Agamemnon.  The  first  of  those  promontories  was 

25  occupied  by  Achilles  with  his  invincible  myrmidons, 
and  the  dauntless  Ajax  pitched  his  tents  on  the  other. 
After  Ajax  had  fallen  a  sacrifice  to  his  disappointed 
pride  and  to  the  ingratitude  of  the  Greeks,  his  sepul- 
chre was  erected  on  the  ground  where  he  had  defended 

30  the  navy  against  the  rage  of  Jove  and  of  Hector ;  and 
the  citizens  of  the  rising  town  of  Rhceteum  celebrated 
his  memory  with  divine  honours.  Before  Constantino 


50  EDWARD   GIBBON. 

gave  a  just  preference  to  the  situation  of  Byzantium, 
he  had  conceived  the  design  of  erecting  the  seat  of 
empire  on  this  celebrated  spot,  from  whence  the 
Romans  derived  their  fabulous  origin.  The  extensive 
plain  which  lies  below  ancient  Troy,  towards  the  5 
Rhcetean  promontory  and  the  tomb  of  Ajax,  was  first 
chosen  for  his  new  capital  ;  and,  though  the  under- 
taking was  soon  relinquished,  the  stately  remains  of 
unfinished  walls  and  towers  attracted  the  notice  of  all 
who  sailed  through  the  straits  of  the  Hellespont.  10 

We  are  at  present  qualified  to  view  the  advantageous 
position  of  Constantinople,  which  appears  to  have 
been  formed  by  nature  for  the  centre  and  capital  of  a 
great  monarchy.  Situated  in  the  forty-first  degree  of 
latitude,  the  Imperial  city  commanded,  from  her  seven  15 
hills,  the  opposite  shores  of  Europe  and  Asia  ;  the 
climate  was  healthy  and  temperate,  the  soil  fertile,  the 
harbour  secure  and  capacious,  and  the  approach  on 
the  side  of  the  continent  was  of  small  extent  and  easy 
defence.  The  Bosphorus  and  the  Hellespont  may  be  20 
considered  as  the  two  gates  of  Constantinople,  and 
the  prince  who  possessed  those  important  passages 
could  always  shut  them  against  a  naval  enemy  and 
open  them  to  the  fleets  of  commerce.  The  preserva- 
tion of  the  eastern  provinces  may,  in  some  degree,  25 
be  ascribed  to  the  policy  of  Constantine,  as  the  bar- 
barians of  the  Euxine,  who  in  the  preceding  age  had 
poured  their  armaments  into  the  heart  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean, soon  desisted  from  the  exercise  of  piracy,  and 
despaired  of  forcing  this  insurmountable  barrier.  30 
When  the  gates  of  the  Hellespont  and  the  Bosphorus 
were  shut,  the  capital  still  enjoyed  within  their 


BYZANTIUM.  51 

spacious  enclosure  every  production  which  could 
supply  the  wants  or  gratify  the  luxury  of  its  numerous 
inhabitants.  The  sea-coasts  of  Thrace  and  Bithynia, 
which  languish  under  the  weight  of  Turkish  oppres- 
5  sion,  still  exhibit  a  rich  prospect  of  vineyards,  of 
gardens,  and  of  plentiful  harvests  ;  and  the  Propontis 
has  ever  been  renowned  for  an  inexhaustible  store  of 
the  most  exquisite  fish,  that  are  taken  in  their  stated 
seasons,  without  skill,  and  almost  without  labour.  But 

10  when  the  passages  of  the  straits  were  thrown  open  for 
trade,  they  alternately  admitted  the  natural  and  arti- 
ficial riches  of  the  north  and  south,  of  the  Euxine,  and 
of  the  Mediterranean.  Whatever  rude  commodities 
were  collected  in  the  forests  of  Germany  and  Scythia, 

15  as  far  as  the  sources  of  the  Tanais  and  the  Borys- 
thenes  ;  whatsoever  was  manufactured  by  the  skill  of 
Europe  or  Asia  ;  the  corn  of  Egypt,  and  the  gems 
and  spices  of  the  farthest  India,  were  brought  by  the 
varying  winds  into  the  port  of  Constantinople,  which, 

20  for  many  ages,  attracted  the  commerce  of  the  ancient 
world. 


VII. 

Geneva.1 
JOHN  RUSKIN. 

From  Praterita  (§  v).  Here  also  the  method  is  enumeration 
with  grouping  and  plan,  but  the  aim  is  purely  picturesque.  Note 
that  the  free  use  of  figures  has  the  underlying  force  of  precision. 

A  LITTLE  canton,  four  miles  square,  and  which  did 
not  wish  to  be  six  miles  square  !  A  little  town,  com- 
posed of  a  cluster  of  watermills,  a  street  of  penthouses, 
two  wooden  bridges,  two  dozen  of  stone  houses,  on  a 
little  hill,  and  three  or  four  perpendicular  lanes  up  and  5 
down  the  hill.  The  four  miles  of  acreage  round,  in 
grass,  with  modest  gardens,  and  farm-dwelling  houses  ; 
the  people,  pious,  learned,  and  busy,  to  a  man,  to  a 
woman — to  a  boy,  to  a  girl,  of  them  ;  progressing  to 
and  fro  mostly  on  their  feet,  and  only  where  they  had  10 
business.  And  this  bird's-nest  of  a  place,  to  be  the 
centre  of  religious  and  social  thought,  and  of  physical 
beauty,  to  all  living  Europe  !  That  is  to  say,  think- 
ing and  designing  Europe, — France,  Germany,  and 
Italy.  They,  and  their  pieties,  and  their  prides,  their  15 
arts  and  their  insanities,  their  wraths  and  slaughters, 
springing  and  flowering,  building  and  fortifying,  foam- 
ing and  thundering  round  this  inconceivable  point  of 

1  Cf.  The  selection  at  the  bottom  of.  p.  xx. 


GENEVA.  S3 

patience  :  the  most  lovely  spot,  and  the  most  notable, 
without  any  possible  dispute,  of  the  European  uni- 
verse ;  yet  the  nations  do  not  covet  it,  do  not  gravitate 
to  it, — what  is  more  wonderful,  do  not  make  a  wilder- 

5  ness  of  it.  They  fight  their  battles  at  Chalons  and 
Leipsic  ;  they  build  their  cotton  mills  on  the  Aire,  and 
leave  the  Rhone  running  with  a  million  of  Aire  power, — 
all  pure.  They  build  their  pleasure  houses  on  Thames 
shingle  and  Seine  mud,  to  look  across  to  Lambeth, 

10  and — whatever  is  on  the  other  side  of  the  Seine. 
They  found  their  military  powers  in  the  sand  of  Berlin, 
and  leave  this  precipice-guarded  plain  in  peace.  And 
yet  it  rules  them, — is  the  focus  of  thought  to  them, 
and  of  passion,  of  science,  and  of  contrat  sociale ;  of 

15  rational  conduct,  and  of  decent — and  other — manners. 
Saussure's  school  and  Calvin's, — Rousseau's  and 
Byron's, — Turner's, — 

And   of  course,  I   was   going  to    say,  mine  ;  but   I 
didn't  write  all  that  last  page  to  end  so.     Yet   Geneva 

20  had  better  have  ended  with  educating  me  and  the 
likes  of  me,  instead  of  the  people  who  have  hold  of  it 
now,  with  their  polypous  knots  of  houses,  communal 
with  '  London,  Paris,  and  New  York.' 

Beneath   which,    and    on    the    esplanades    of    the 

25  modern  casino,  New  York  and  London  now  live — no 
more  the  Genevese.  What  their  home  once  was,  I 
must  try  to  tell,  as  I  saw  it. 

First,  it  was  a  notable  town  for  keeping  all  its  poor, 
— inside  of  it.     In  the  very  centre,  where  an  English 

30  town  has  its  biggest  square,  and  its  Exchange  on  the 
model  of  the  Parthenon,  built  for  the  sake  of  the 
builder's  commission  on  the  cost ;  there,  on  their  little 


54  JOHN  RUSK  IN. 

pile-propped  island,  and  by  the  steep  lane-sides,  lived 
the  Genevoise  poor  ;  in  their  garrets, — their  laborious 
upper  spinning  or  watch-wheel  cutting  rooms,— their 
dark  niches  and  angles  of  lane  :  mostly  busy  ;  the  infirm 
and  old  all  seen  to  and  cared  for,  their  porringers  5 
filled  and  their  pallet-beds  made,  by  household  care. 
But,  outside  the  ramparts,  no  more  poor.  A 
sputter,  perhaps,  southward,  along  the  Savoy  road  ; 
but  in  all  the  champaign  round,  no  mean  rows  of 
cubic  lodgings  with  Doric  porches ;  no  squalid  fields  10 
of  mud  and  thistles  ;  no  deserts  of  abandoned  brick- 
field and  insolvent  kitchen  garden.  On  the  instant, 
outside  Geneva  gates,  perfectly  smooth,  clean,  trim- 
hedged  or  prim-walled  country  roads  ;  the  main  broad 
one  intent  on  far-away  things,  its  signal-posts  inscribed  15 
4  Route  de  Paris';  branching  from  it,  right  and  left, 
a  labyrinth  of  equally  well-kept  ways  for  fine  carriage 
wheels,  between  the  gentlemen's  houses  with  their 
farms  ;  each  having  its  own  fifteen  to  twenty  to  fifty 
acres  of  mostly  meadow,  rich-waving  always  (in  my  20 
time  for  being  there)  with  grass  and  flowers,  like  a 
kaleidoscope.  Stately  plane  trees,  aspen  and  walnut, 
— sometimes  in  avenue, — casting  breezy,  never  gloomy 
shade  round  the  dwelling-house.  A  dwelling-house 
indeed,  all  the  year  round  ;  no  travelling  from  it  to  25 
fairer  lands  possible  ;  no  shutting  up  for  seasons  in 
town  ;  hay-time  and  fruit-time,  school-time  and  play, 
for  generation  after  generation,  within  the  cheerful 
white  domicile  with  its  green  shutters  and  shingle 
roof, — pinnacled  perhaps,  humourously,  at  the  corners,  30 
glittering  on  the  edges  with  silvery  tin.  *  Kept  up '  the 
whole  place,  and  all  the  neighbours'  places,  not  osten- 


GENEVA.  55 

tatiously,  but  perfectly  :  enough  gardeners  to  mow, 
enough  vintagers  to  press,  enough  nurses  to  nurse  ;  no 
foxes  to  hunt,  no  birds  to  shoot ;  but  every  household 
felicity  possible  to  prudence  and  honour,  felt  and 
5  fulfilled  from  infancy  to  age. 

Where  the  grounds  came  down  to  the  waterside, 
they  were  mostly  built  out  into  it,  till  the  water  was  four 
or  five  feet  deep,  lapping  up,  or  lashing,  under  breeze, 
against  the  terrace  wall.  Not  much  boating  ;  fancy 

10  wherries,  unmanageable,  or  too  adventurous,  upon  the 
wild  blue  ;  and  Swiss  boating  a  serious  market  and 
trade  business,  unfashionable  in  the  high  rural 
empyrean  of  Geneva.  But  between  the  Hotel  des 
Etrangers  (one  of  these  country  houses  open  to  the 

15  polite  stranger,  some  half-mile  out  of  the  gates,  where 
Salvador  took  us  in  '33  and  '35)  and  the  town,  there 
were  one  or  two  landing-places  for  the  raft-like  flat 
feluccas  ;  and  glimpses  of  the  open  lake  and  things 
beyond, — glimpses  only,  shut  off  quickly  by  garden 

20  walls,  until  one  came  to  the  inlet  of  lake-water'  moat 
which  bent  itself  under  the  ramparts  back  to  the  city 
gate.  This  was  crossed,  for  people  afoot  who  did  not 
like  going  round  to  that  main  gate,  by  the  delicatest 
of  filiform  suspension  bridges  ;  strong  enough  it 

25  looked  to  carry  a  couple  of  lovers  over  in  safety,  or  a 
nursemaid  and  children,  but  nothing  heavier.  One 
was  allowed  to  cross  it  for  a  centime,  which  seemed  to 
me  always  a  most  profitable  transaction,  the  portress 
receiving  placidly  a  sort  of  dirty  flattened  sixpence, 

30(1  forget  its  name),  and  returning  me  a  waistcoat- 
pocketful  of  the  loveliest  little  clean-struck  centimes  ; 
and  then  one  might  stand  on  the  bridge  any  time,  in 


56  JOHN  RUSKIK. 

perfect  quiet.  (The  Genevese  didn't  like  paying  the 
centime,  and  went  round  by  the  gate.)  Two  swans, 
drifting  about  underneath,  over  a  couple  of  fathoms  of 
purest  green  water,  and  the  lake  really  opening  from 
the  moat,  exactly  where  the  Chamouni  range  of  5 
aiguilles  rose  beyond  it  far  away.  In  our  town  walks 
we  used  always  to  time  getting  back  to  the  little  bridge 
at  sunset,  there  to  wait  and  watch. 

That  was  the  way  of  things  on  the  north  side  ;  on 
the  south,  the  town  is  still,  in  the  main  buildings  of  it,  10 
as  then  ;    the   group   of  officially  aristocratic   houses 
round  the  cathedral  and  college  presenting  the  same 
inaccessible  sort  of  family  dignity  that  they  do  to-day  ; 
only,  since  then,  the  Geneva  Liberals — Well,  I  will  not 
say  what  they  have  done  ;  the  main  town  stands  still  15 
on  its  height  of  pebble-gravel  ;  knit  almost  into  rock  ; 
and  still  the  upper  terraces  look  across  the  variously 
mischievous    Liberal   woods    to   the    open   southern 
country,  rising  in  steady  slope  of  garden,  orchard,  and 
vineyard — sprinkled  with  pretty  farm-houses  and  bits  20 
of  chateau,  like  a  sea-shore  with  shells  ;  rising  always 
steeper  and  steeper,  till  the  air  gets  rosy  in  the  dis- 
tance,   then    blue,  and    the   great   walnut-trees   have 
become  dots,  and  the  farmsteads,  minikin  as  if  they 
were  the  fairy-finest  of  models  made  to  be  packed  in  a  25 
box  ;  and  then,  instant — above  vineyard,  above  farm- 
stead, above  field  and  wood,  leaps  up  the  Saleve  cliff, 
two  thousand  feet  into  the  air. 

I  don't  think  anybody  who  goes   to  Geneva  ever 
sees   the   Saleve.       For   the    most    part,    no    English  30 
creature  ever  does  see  farther  than  over  the  way  ;  and 
the  Saleve,  unless  you  carefully  peer  into  it,  and  make 


GENEVA.  57 

out  what  it  is,  pretends  to  be  nothing, — a  long,  low 
swell  like  the  South  Downs,  I  fancy  most  people  take 
it  for,  and  look  no  more.  Yet  there  are  few  rocks  in 
the  high  Alps  more  awful  than  the  '  Angle  '  of  the 
5  Saleve,  at  its  foot — seven  Shakespeare's  Cliffs  set  one 
on  the  top  of  another,  and  all  of  marble. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  high  town  the  houses 
stand  closer,  leaving  yet  space  for  a  little  sycamore- 
shaded  walk,  whence  one  looks  down  on  the  whole 

10  southern  reach  of  lake,  opening  wide  to  the  horizon, 
and  edged  there  like  the  sea,  but  in  the  summer  sun- 
shine looking  as  if  it  was  the  one  well  of  blue  which 
the  sunbeams  drank  to  make  the  sky  of.  Beyond  it, 
ghostly  ranges  of  incredible  mountains — the  Dent 

15  d'Oche,  and  first  cliffs  toward  Fribourg  ;  to  the  west, 
the  long  wave  of  Jura,  fading  into  the  air  above 
Neuchatel. 

That  was  the  view  for  full  noon,  when  the  lake  was 
brightest  and  bluest.  Then  you  fell  down  a  perpen- 

2odicular  lane  into  the  lower  town  again,  and  you  went 
to  Mr.  Bautte's. 

Virtually  there  was  no  other  jeweller  in  Geneva,  in 
the  great  times.  There  were  some  respectable, 
uncompetitive  shops,  not  dazzling,  in  the  main  street  ; 

25  and  smaller  ones,  with  an  average  supply  of  miniature 
watches,  that  would  go  well  for  ten  years  ;  and 
uncostly,  but  honest  trinketry.  But  one  went  to  Mr. 
Bautte's  with  awe,  and  of  necessity,  as  one  did  to  one's 
bankers.  There  was  scarcely  any  external  sign  of 

30  Bautte  whatever — a  small  brass  plate  at  the  side  of  a 
narrow  arched  door,  into  an  alley — into  a  secluded 
alley — leading  into  a  monastic  courtyard,  out  of 


58  JOHN  RUSK  IN. 

which — or  rather  out  of  the  alley,  where  it  opened  to 
the  court,  you  ascended  a  winding  stair,  wide  enough 
for  two  only,  and  came  to  a  green  door,  swinging,  at 
the  top  of  it  ;  and  there  you  paused  to  summon 
courage  to  enter.  5 

A  not  large  room,  with  a  single  counter  at  the 
further  side.  Nothing  shown  on  the  counter.  Two 
confidential  attendants  behind  -it,  and — it  might  pos- 
sibly be  Mr.  Bautte  !— or  his  son — or  his  partner — or 
anyhow  the  Ruling  power — at  his  desk  beside  the  back  10 
window.  You  told  what  you  wanted  :  it  was  neces- 
sary to  know  your  mind,  and  to  be  sure  you  did  want 
it  ;  there  was  no  showing  of  things  for  temptation  at 
Bautte's.  You  wanted  a  bracelet,  a  brooch,  a  watch — 
plain  or  enamelled.  Choice  of  what  was  wanted  was  15 
quietly  given.  There  were  no  big  stones,  nor  blinding 
galaxies  of  wealth.  Entirely  sound  workmanship  in 
the  purest  gold  that  could  be  worked  ;  fine  enamel  for 
the  most  part,  for  colour,  rather  than  jewels  ;  and 
a  certain  Bauttessque  subtlety  of  linked  and  wreathed  20 
design,  which  the  experienced  eye  recognized  when 
worn  in  Paris  or  London.  Absolutely  just  and 
moderate  price  ;  wear, — to  the  end  of  your  days. 
You  came  away  with  a  sense  of  duty  fulfilled,  of 
treasure  possessed,  and  of  a  new  foundation  to  the  25 
respectability  of  your  family. 

You  returned  into  the  light  of  the  open  street  with 
a  blissful  sense  of  a  parcel  being  made  up  to  be  sent 
after  you,  and  in  the  consequently  calm  expatiation  of 
mind,  went  usually  to  watch  the  Rhone.  30 

Bautte's  was  in  the  main  street,  out  of  which  one 
caught  glimpses,  down  the  short  cross  ones,  of  the 


GENEVA.  59 

passing  water,  as  at  Sandgate,  or  the  like  fishing 
towns,  one  got  peeps  of  the  sea.  With  twenty  steps 
you  were  beside  it. 

For  all  other  rivers  there  is  a  surface,  and  an  under- 

5  neath,  and  a  vaguely  displeasing  idea  of  the  bottom. 
But  the  Rhone  flows  like  one  lambent  jewel  ;  its  sur- 
face is  nowhere,  its  ethereal  self  is  everywhere,  the 
iridescent  rush  and  translucent  strength  of  it  blue  to 
the  shore,  and  radiant  to  the  depth. 

ro  Fifteen  feet  thick,  of  not  flowing,  but  flying  water  ; 
not  water,  neither — melted  glacier,  rather,  one  should 
call  it  ;  the  force  of  the  ice  is  with  it,  and  the  wreath- 
ing of  the  clouds,  the  gladness  of  the  sky,  and  the  con- 
tinuance of  Time. 

15  Waves  of  clear  sea  are,  indeed,  lovely  to  watch,  but 
they  are  always  coming  or  gone,  never  in  any  taken 
shape  to  be  seen  for  a  second.  But  here  was  one 
mighty  wave  that  was  always  itself,  and  every  fluted 
swirl  of  it,  constant  as  the  wreathing  of  a  shell.  No 

20  wasting  away  of  the  fallen  foam,  no  pause  for  gather- 
ing of  power,  no  helpless  ebb  of  discouraged  recoil  ; 
but  alike  through  bright  day  and  lulling  night,  the 
never-pausing  plunge,  and  never-fading  flash,  and 
never-hushing  whisper,  and,  while  the  sun  was  up,  the 

25  ever-answering  glow  of  unearthly  aquamarine,  ultra- 
marine, violet-blue,  gentian-blue,  peacock-blue,  river- 
of-paradise  blue,  glass  of  a  painted  window  melted  in 
the  sun,  and  the  witch  of  the  Alps  flinging  the  spun 
tresses  of  it  forever  from  her  snow. 

30  The  innocent  way,  too,  in  which  the  river  used  to 
stop  to  look  into  every  little  corner.  Great  torrents 
always  seem  angry,  and  great  rivers  too  often  sullen  ; 


60  JOHN  RUSK  IN. 

but  there  is  no  anger,  no  disdain,  in  the  Rhone.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  mountain  stream  was  in  mere  bliss  at 
recovering  itself  again  out  of  the  lake-sleep,  and  raced 
because  it  rejoiced  in  racing,  fain  yet  to  return  and 
stay.  There  were  pieces  of  wave  that  danced  all  day  5 
as  if  Perdita  were  looking  on  to  learn  ;  there  were 
little  streams  that  skipped  like  lambs  and  leaped  like 
chamois  ;  there  were  pools  that  shook  the  sunshine 
all  through  them,  and  were  rippled  in  layers  of  over- 
laid ripples,  like  crystal  sand  ;  there  were  currents  10 
that  twisted  the  light  into  golden  braids,  and  inlaid 
the  threads  with  turquoise  enamel  ;  there  were  strips 
of  stream  that  had  certainly  above  the  lake  been  mill- 
streams,  and  were  looking  busily  for  mills  to  turn 
again  ;  there  were  shoots  of  stream  that  had  once  shot  15 
fearfully  into  the  air,  and  now  sprang  up  again  laugh- 
ing that  they  had  only  fallen  a  foot  or  two  ; — and  in  the 
midst  of  all  the  gay  glittering  and  eddied  lingering, 
the  noble  bearing  by  of  the  midmost  depth,  so  mighty, 
yet  so  terrorless  and  harmless,  with  its  swallows  skim-  20 
ming  in  spite  of  petrels,  and  the  dear  old  decrepit 
town  as  safe  in  the  embracing  sweep  of  it  as  if  it  were 
let  in  a  brooch  of  sapphire. 


VIII. 

Storming  of  tbe  Pastille. 
THOMAS  CARLYLE. 

From  The  French  Revolution  (V,  vi).  This  selection  should  be 
discussed  to  bring  out  the  means  of  its  vividness.  The  method  is 
narrative  enumeration,  with  constant  suggestion  of  the  look  of  the 
whole,  often  by  effect  (p.  xl). 

ALL  morning,  since  nine,  there  has  been  a  cry  every- 
where, To  the  Bastille  !  Repeated  "  deputations  of 
citizens"  have  been  here,  passionate  for  arms,  whom 
De  Launay  has  got  dismissed  by  soft  speeches  through 

5  port-holes.  Toward  noon,  Elector  Thuriot  de  la 
Rosiere  gains  admittance,  finds  De  Launay  indisposed 
for  surrender,  nay,  disposed  for  blowing  up  the  place 
rather.  Thuriot  mounts  with  him  to  the  battlements  ; 
heaps  of  paving-stones,  old  iron,  and  missiles  lie  piled  ; 

10  cannon  all  duly  levelled  ;  in  every  embrasure  a  cannon 
— only  drawn  back  a  little  !  But  outward,  behold, 
O  Thuriot,  how  the  multitude  flows  on,  welling 
through  every  street ;  tocsin  furiously  pealing,  all 
drums  beating  the  ge*nerale  ;  the  suburb  Saint  Antoine 

15  rolling  hitherward  wholly,  as  one  man  !  Such  visiop 
(spectral,  yet  real)  thou,  O  Thuriot,  as  from  thy  mount 
of  visions,  beholdest  in  this  moment,  prophetic  of  what 
other  phantasmagories  and  loud-gibbering  spectral 

61 


62  THOMAS  CARLYLE. 

realities   which   thou   yet   beholdest   not,  but   shalt  ! 
"  Que  voulez-vous  ?  "  said  De  Launay,  turning  pale  at 
the  sight,  with  an  air  of  reproach,  almost  of  menace. 
"  Monsieur,"  said  Thuriot,  rising  into  the  moral  sublime, 
"  what  mean  you  ?     Consider  if  I  could  not  precipi-   $ 
tate  both  of  us  from  this  height/'  say  only  a  hundred 
feet,  exclusive  of  the  walled  ditch  !     Whereupon  De 
Launay  fell  silent.     Thuriot  shows  himself  from  some 
pinnacle,   to   comfort   the   multitude   becoming   sus- 
picious, fremescent,  then  descends,  departs  with  pro- 10 
tests,  with  warning  addressed  also  to  the  Invalides,  on 
whom,  however,  it  produces  but  a  mixed,  indistinct 
impression.     The  old  heads  are  none  of  the  clearest  ; 
besides,  it  is  said,   De   Launay  has  been  profuse  of 
beverages  (prodigue  des  boissons).     They  think  they  15 
will  not  fire — if  not  fired  on — if  they  can  help  it  ;  but 
must,  on  the  whole,  be  ruled  considerably  by  circum- 
stances. 

Woe  to  thee,  De  Launay,  in  such  an  hour,  if  thou 
canst  not,  taking  some  one  firm  decision,  ride  circum-  20 
stances  !     Soft  speeches  will  not  serve,  hard  grape-shot 
is  questionable,  but  hovering  between  the  two  is  un- 
questionable.     Ever  wilder  swells   the   tide  of   men, 
their  infinite  hum  waxing  ever  louder,  into  impreca- 
tions, perhaps  into  crackle  of  stray  musketry — which  25 
latter,  on  walls  nine  feet  thick,  cannot  do  execution. 
The  outer  drawbridge  has  been  lowered  for  Thuriot  ;, 
new  deputation  of  citizens  (it  is  the  third  and  noisest  of 
all)  penetrates  that    way  into    the   outer   court  ;  soft 
speeches  producing  no  clearance  of  these,  De  Launay  30 
gives  fire,  pulls  up  his  drawbridge.     A  slight  splutter, 
which  has  kindled  the  too  combustible  chaos,  made  it 


'THE   STORMING  OF    THE  BASTILLE.          63 

a  roaring   fire-chaos  !      Bursts   forth    insurrection,   at 
sight  of  its  own  blood  (for  there  were  deaths  by  that 
splutter  of  fire),  into  endless,  rolling  explosion  of  mus- 
ketry, distraction,  execration,  and   overhead,  from  the 
5  fortress,  let  one  great  gun,  with  its  grape-shot,  go  boom- 
ing, to  show  what  we  could 'do.    The  Bastille  is  besieged! 
On,  then,  all  Frenchmen  that  have  hearts  in  your 
bodies  !     Roar  with  all  your  throats  of  cartilage  and 
metal,  ye  sons  of  liberty  ;    stir  spasmodically  whatso- 

10  ever  of  utmost  faculty  is  in  you,  soul,  body,  or  spirit, 
for  it  is  the  hour  !  Smite  thou,  Louis  Tournay,  cart- 
wright  of  the  Marais,  old  soldier  of  the  Regiment 
Dauphine*  ;  smite  at  that  outer  drawbridge  chain, 
though  the  fiery  hail  whistles  round  thee  !  Never, 

15  over  nave  or  felloe,  did  thy  axe  strike  such  a  stroke. 
Down  with  it,  man  ;  down  with  it  to  Orcus  ;  let  the 
whole  accursed  edifice  sink  thither,  and  tyranny  be 
swallowed  up  forever  !  Mounted,  some  say,  on  the 
roof  of  the  guard-room,  some  "  on  bayonets  stuck  into 

20  joints  of  the  wall,"  Louis  Tournay  smites,  brave  Aubin 
Bonnemere  (also  an  old  soldier)  seconding  him.  The 
chain  yields,  breaks  ;  the  huge  drawbridge  slams  down, 
thundering  (avec  fracas).  Glorious  !  and  yet,  alas  ! 
it  is  still  but  the  outworks.  The  eight  grim  towers, 

25  with  their  Invalide  musketry,  their  paving-stones  and 
cannon-mouths,  will  soar  aloft  intact ;  ditch  yawning 
impassable,  stone-faced  ;  the  inner  drawbridge  with  its 
back  toward  us  ;  the  Bastille  is  still  to  take  ! 

To  describe  this  siege  of  the  Bastille  (thought  to  be 

30  one  of  the  most  important  in  history)  perhaps  tran- 
scends the  talent  of  mortals.  Could  one  but,  after  in- 
finite reading,  get  to  understand  so  much  as  the  plan 


64  THOMAS  CARLYLE. 

of  the  building !  But  there  is  open  esplanade  at  the 
end  of  the  Rue  Saint  Antoine  ;  there  are  such  fore- 
courts (cour  avance"),  cour  de  1'orme,  arched  gateway 
(where  Louis  Tournay  now  fights);  then  new  draw- 
bridges, dormant-bridges,  rampart-bastions,  and  the  $ 
grim  eight  towers,  a  labyrinthic  mass,  high-frowning 
there,  of  all  ages  from  twenty  years  to  four  hundred 
and  twenty,  beleaguered  in  this  its  last  hour,  as  we 
said,  by  mere  chaos  come  again  !  Ordnance  of  all 
calibres,  throats  of  all  capacities,  men  of  all  plans,  10 
every  man  his  own  engineer  ;  seldom  since  the  war 
of  pygmies  and  cranes  was  there  seen  so  anomalous 
a  thing.  Half-pay  Elie  is  home  for  a  suit  of  regimen- 
tals, no  one  would  heed  him  in  coloured  clothes  ;  half- 
pay  Hulin  is  haranguing  Gardes  Frai^aises  in  the  ij 
Place  de  Greve.  Frantic  patriots  pick  up  the  grape- 
shots,  bear  them,  still  hot  (or  seemingly  so),  to  the 
Hotel  de  Ville.  Paris,  you  perceive,  is  to  be  burnt  ! 
Flesselles  is  "  pale  to  the  very  lips,"  for  the  roar  of 
the  multitude  grows  deep.  Paris,  wholly,  has  got  to  20 
the  acme  of  its  frenzy,  whirled  all  ways  by  panic  mad- 
ness. At  every  street-barricade  there  whirls,  simmer- 
ing, a  minor  whirlpool,  strengthening  the  barricade, 
since  God  knows  what  is  coming  ;  and  all  minor  whirl- 
pools play  distractedly  into  that  grand  fire-maelstrom  25 
which  is  lashing  round  the  Bastille. 

And  so  it  lashes  and  it  roars.  Cholat,  the  wine-mer- 
chant, has  become  an  impromptu  cannoneer.  See 
Georget,  of  the  marine  service,  fresh  from  Brest,  ply  the 
King  of  Siam's  cannon.  Singular  (if  we  were  not  used  30 
to  the  like).  Georget  lay,  last  night,  taking  his  ease 
at  his  inn  ;  the  King  of  Siam's  cannon  also  lay,  know- 


THE   STORMING   OF   THE  BASTILLE.          65 

ing  nothing  of  him  for  a  hundred  years  ;  yet  now,  at 
the  right  instant,  they  have  got  together,  and  discourse 
eloquent  music  ;  for,  hearing  what  was  toward,  Geor- 
get  sprang  from  the  Brest  diligence,  and  ran.  Gardes 

f  5  Francaises,  also,  will  be  here,  with  real  artillery.  Were 
not  the  walls  so  thick  !  Upward  from  the  esplanade, 
horizontally  from  all  the  neighbouring  roofs  and  win- 
dows, flashes  one  irregular  deluge  of  musketry,  without 
effect.  The  Invalides  lie  flat,  firing  comparatively  at 

10  their  ease  from  behind  stone  ;  hardly  through  port- 
holes show  the  tip  of  a  nose.  We  fall,  shot,  and  make 
no  impression  ! 

Let  the  conflagration  rage  of  whatsoever  is  combus- 
tible !     Guard-rooms  are  burnt,  Invalides  mess-rooms. 

15  A  distracted  "  peruke-maker  with  two  fiery  torches  "  is 
for  burning  "  the  saltpetres  of  the  arsenal,"  had  not  a 
woman  run  screaming,  had  not  a  patriot,  with  some 
tincture  of  natural  philosophy,  instantly  struck  the 
wind  out  of  him  (butt  of  musket  on  pit  of  stomach), 

20  overturned  barrels,  and  stayed  the  devouring  element. 
A  young,  beautiful  lady,  seized,  escaping,  in  these 
outer  courts,  and  thought,  falsely,  to  be  De  Launay's 
daughter,  shall  be  burnt  in  De  Launay's  sight  :  she 
lies,  swooned,  on  a  paillasse  ;  but,  again,  a  patriot — it 

25  is  brave  Aubin  Bonnemere,  the  old  soldier — dashes  in 
and  rescues  her.  Straw  is  burnt  ;  three  cartloads  of 
it,  hauled  hither,  go  up  in  white  smoke,  almost  to  the 
choking  of  patriotism  itself  ;  so  that  Elie  had,  with 
singed  brows,  to  drag  back  one  cart,  and  Reole,  the 

3°  "gigantic  haberdasher,"  another.    Smoke  as  of  Tophet, 
confusion  as  of  Babel,  noise  as  the  crack  of  doom  I 
Blood   flows,   the   aliment  of  new  madness.     The 


66  THOMAS  CARLYLE. 

wounded  are  carried  into  houses  of  the  Rue  Cerisaie  ; 
the  dying  leave  their  last  mandate  not  to  yield  till  the 
accursed  stronghold  fall.  And  yet,  alas  !  how  fall  ? 
The  walls  are  so  thick  !  Deputations,  three  in  number, 
arrive  from  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  Abbe  Fauchet  (who  was  * 
of  one)  can  say  with  what  almost  superhuman  courage 
of  benevolence.  These  wave  their  town-flag  in  the 
arched  gateway,  and  stand,  rolling  their  drum,  but  to 
no  purpose.  In  such  a  crack  of  doom,  De  Launay 
cannot  hear  them,  dare  not  believe  them  ;  they  return,  ic 
with  justified  rage,  the  whew  of  lead  still  singing  in 
their  ears.  What  to  do  ?  The  firemen  are  here,  squirt- 
ing with  their  fire-pumps  on  the  Invalides  cannon,  to 
wet  the  touch-holes  ;  they  unfortunately  cannot  squirt 
so  high,  but  produce  only  clouds  of  spray.  Individ-  *s 
uals  of  classical  knowledge  propose  catapults.  Santerre, 
the  sonorous  brewer  of  the  suburb  Saint  Antoine,  ad- 
vises rather  that  the  place  be  fired  by  a  "  mixture  of 
phosphorus  and  oil  of  turpentine  spouted  up  through 
forcing  pumps."  O  Spinola-Santerre,  hast  thou  the  20 
mixture  ready?  Every  man  his  own  engineer  !  And 
still  the  fire-deluge  abates  not  ;  even  women  are  firing, 
and  Turks — at  least  one  woman  (with  her  sweetheart), 
and  one  Turk.  Gardes  Francaises  have  come  ;  real 
cannon,  real  cannoneers.  Usher  Maillard  is  busy;  25 
half-pay  Elie,  half-pay  Hulin,  rage  in  the  midst  of 
thousands. 

How  the  great  Bastille  clock  ticks  (inaudible)  in  its 
inner  court,  there,  at  its  ease,  hour   after   hour  ;  as  if 
nothing  special,  for  it  or  the  world,  were  passing  !     It  30 
tolled  one  when  the  firing  began,  and  is  now  pointing 
toward  five,  and  still  the  firing  slakes  not.     Far  down, 


THE    STORMING   OF   THE  BASTILLE.          67 

in  their  vaults,  the  seven  prisoners  hear  muffled  din  as 
of  earthquakes  ;  their  turnkeys  answer  vaguely. 

Woe  to  thee,  De  Launay,  with  thy  poor  hundred 
Invalides !  Broglie  is  distant,  and  his  ears  heavy  ; 
5  Besenval  hears,  but  can  send  no  help.  One  poor 
troop  of  hussars  has  crept,  reconnoitring,  cautiously 
along  the  quais,  as  far  as  Pont  Neuf.  "  We  are  come 
to  join  you,"  said  the  captain,  for  the  crowd  seems 
shoreless.  A  large-headed  dwarfish  individual,  of 

10  smoke-bleared  aspect,  shambles  forward,  opening  his 
blue  lips,  for  there  is  sense  in  him,  and  croaks,  "  Alight 
then,  and  give  up  your  arms  !  "  The  hussar  captain  is 
too  happy  to  be  escorted  to  the  barriers  and  dismissed 
on  parole.  Who  the  squat  individual  was  ?  Men 

15  answer,  It  is  M.  Marat,  author  of  the  excellent  pacific 
"Avis  au  Peuple  ! "  Great,  truly,  O  thou  remarkable 
dog-leech,  is  this  thy  day  of  emergence  and  new-birth  ; 
and  yet  this  same  day  come  four  years — but  let  the 
curtains  of  the  future  hang. 

20  What  shall  De  Launay  do  ?  One  thing  only  De 
Launay  could  have  done — what  he  said  he  would  do. 
Fancy  him  sitting,  from  the  first,  with  lighted  taper, 
within  arm's-length  of  the  powder  magazine ;  motion- 
less, like  old  Roman  senator,  or  bronze  lamp-holder  ; 

25  coldly  apprising  Thuriot,  and  all  men,  by  a  slight 
motion  of  his  eye,  what  his  resolution  was.  Harmless 
he  sat  there,  while  unharmed  ;  but  the  king's  fortress, 
meanwhile,  could,  might,  would  or  should  in  nowise 
be  surrendered  save  to  the  king's  messenger  ;  one  old 

30  man's  life  is  worthless,  so  it  be  lost  with  honour  ;  but 
think,  ye  brawling  canaille,  how  will  it  be  when  a 
whole  Bastille  springs  skyward  ?  In  such  statuesque, 


68  THOMAS  CARLYLE. 

taper-holding  attitude,  one  fancies  De  Launay  might 
have  left  Thuriot,  the  red  clerks  of  the  basoche,  cure 
of  Saint  Stephen,  and  all  the  tag-rag  and  bobtail  of 
the  world,  to  work  their  will. 

And   yet,  withal,  he  could  not  do  it.     Hast  thou   5 
considered  how  each  man's  heart  is   so  tremulously 
responsive  to  the  hearts  of  all  men  ?  hast  thou  noted 
how  omnipotent    is    the  very  sound  of  many  men  ? 
How  their  shriek  of  indignation  palsies  the  strong  soul  ? 
their  howl  of  contumely  withers  with  unfelt  pangs  ?  10 
The  Ritter  Gliick  confessed  that  the  ground-tone  of 
the  noblest  passage  in  one  of  his  noblest  operas  was 
the  voice  of  the  populace  he  had  heard  at  Vienna, 
crying  to  their  kaiser,  Bread  !  Bread  !     Great  is  the 
combined  voice  of  men,  the  utterance  of  their  instincts,  15 
which  are  truer  than  their  thoughts;    it  is  the  greatest 
a  man  encounters,   among  the  sounds  and  shadows 
which  make  up  this  world  of  time  !     He  who  can  re- 
sist that,  has  his  footing  somewhere  beyond  time.     De 
Launay  could  not  do  it.     Distracted,   he  hovers  be-  20 
tween  two — hopes  in  the  middle  of  despair  ;  surrenders 
not  his  fortress  ;  declares  that  he  will  blow  it  up, 
seizes  torches  to  blow  it  up,  and  does  not  blow  it. 
Unhappy  old  De  Launay,  it  is  the  death-agony  of  thy 
Bastille   and   thee  !      Jail,   jailoring,   and   jailor,    all  25 
three,  such  as  they  may  have  been,  must  finish. 

For  four  hours  now  has  the  world-bedlam  roared  ; 
call  it  the  world-chimera,  blowing  fire  !  The  poor 
Invalides  have  sunk  under  their  battlements,  or  rise 
only  with  reversed  muskets  ;  they  have  made  a  white  30 
flag  of  napkins,  go  beating  the  chamade,  or  seeming 
to  beat,  for  one  can  hear  nothing.  The  very  Swiss  at 


THE   STORMING  OF   THE  BASTILLE.  69 

the  portcullis  look  weary  of  firing,  disheartened  in  the 
fire-deluge  ;  a  port-hole  at  the  drawbridge  is  opened, 
as  by  one  that  would  speak.  See  Huissier  Maillard, 
the  shifty  man  !  On  his  plank,  swinging  over  the 
5  abyss  of  that  stone  ditch,  plank  resting  on  parapet, 
balanced  by  weight  of  patriots,  he  hovers  perilous — 
such  a  dove  toward  such  an  ark  !  Deftly,  thou  shifty 
usher ;  one  man  already  fell,  and  lies  smashed,  far 
down  there,  against  the  masonry  !  Usher  Maillard 

10  falls  not  ;  deftly,  unerring,  he  walks,  with  outspread 
palm.  The  Swiss  holds  a  paper  through  his  port-hole  ; 
the  shifty  usher  snatches  it  and  returns.  Terms  of 
surrender,  Pardon,  immunity  to  all  !  Are  they  ac- 
cepted ?  "  Foi  d'officier  "  (on  the  word  of  an  officer), 

15  answer  shall  half-pay  Hulin,  or  half-pay  Elie — for  men 
do  not  agree  on  it — "  they  are  !  "  Sinks  the  draw- 
bridge, Usher  Maillard  bolting  it  when  down  ;  rushes 
in  the  living  deluge  ;  the  Bastille  is  fallen  !  Victoirc  ! 
La  Bastille  est  prise  ! 


IX. 

Sfeetcbes  b£  flfcfcbael  Bngelo. 
ALGERNON  CHARLES   SWINBURNE. 

From  Notes  on  Designs  of  the  Old  Masters  at  Florence*  This 
is  almost  entirely  description  by  effect.  It  is  a  useful  exercise  to 
compare  the  descriptive  diction  with  that  of  Selections  VIII. 
and  X. 

BUT  in  one  separate  head  there  is  more  tragic  attrac- 
tion than  in  these  :  a  woman's,  three  times  studied, 
with  divine  and  subtle  care  ;  sketched  and  re-sketched 
in  youth  and  age,  beautiful  always  beyond  desire  and 
cruel  beyond  words  ;  fairer  than  heaven  and  more  5 
terrible  than  hell  ;  pale  with  pride  and  weary  with 
wrong-doing;  a  silent  anger  against  God  and  man 
burns,  white  and  repressed,  through  her  clear  features. 
In  one  drawing  she  wears  a  head-dress  of  eastern 
fashion  rather  than  western,  but  in  effect  made  out  10 
of  the  artist's  mind  only  ;  plaited  in  the  likeness  of 
closely-welded  scales  as  of  a  chrysalid  serpent,  raised 
and  waved  and  rounded  in  the  likeness  of  a  sea-shell. 
In  some  inexplicable  way  all  her  ornaments  seem  to 
partake  of  her  fatal  nature,  to  bear  upon  them  the  15 
brand  of  beauty  fresh  from  hell  ;  and  this  through  no 
vulgar  machinery  or  symbolism,  no  serpentine  or 

1  Essays  and  Studies,  London,  Chatto  &  Windus. 


SKETCHES  BY  MICHAEL  ANGELO.  71 

otherwise  bestial  emblem  :  the  bracelets  and  rings  are 
innocent  enough  in  shape  and  workmanship  ;  but  in 
touching  her  flesh  they  have  become  infected  with 
deadly  and  malignant  meaning.  Broad  bracelets 
w  divide  the  shapely  splendour  of  her  arms;  over  the 
nakedness  of  her  firm  and  luminous  breasts,  just  below 
the  neck,  there  is  passed  a  band  as  of  metal.  Her 
eyes  are  full  of  proud  and  passionless  lust  after  gold 
and  blood  ;  her  hair,  close  and  curled,  seems  ready  to 

10  shudder  in  sunder  and  divide  into  snakes.  Her  throat, 
full  and  fresh,  round  and  hard  to  the  eye  as  her  bosom 
and  arms,  is  erect  and  stately,  the  head  set  firm  on  it 
without  droop  or  lift  of  the  chin  ;  her  mouth  crueller 
than  a  tiger's,  colder  than  a  snake's,  and  beautiful 

15  beyond  a  woman's.  She  is  the  deadlier  Venus  incar- 
nate : 

£v  ev  Oeolai  KOVK  av&vv/j,o£  0edt 


for  upon  earth  also  many  names  might  be  found  for 
her  :  Lamia  re-transformed,  invested  now  with  a  fuller 

20  beauty,  but  divested  of  all  feminine  attributes  not 
native  to  the  snake  —  a  Lamia  loveless  and  unassailable 
by  the  sophist,  readier  to  drain  life  out  of  her  lover 
than  to  fade  for  his  sake  at  his  side  ;  or  the  Persian 
Amestris,  watching  the  only  breasts  on  earth  more 

25  beautiful  than  her  own,  cut  off  from  her  rival's  living 
bosom  ;  or  Cleopatra,  not  dying,  but  turning  serpent 
under  the  serpent's  bite  ;  or  that  queen  of  the  East 
who  with  her  husband  marked  every  day  as  it  went  by 
some  device  of  a  new  and  wonderful  cruelty.  In  one 

30  design,  where  the  cruel  and  timid  face  of  a  king  rises 
behind  her,  this  crowned  and  cowering  head  might 


72  ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE. 

stand  for  Ahab's  and  hers  for  that  of  Jezebel. 
Another  study  is  in  red  chalk  ;  in  this  the  only  orna- 
ments are  ear-rings.  In  a  third,  the  serpentine  hair  is 
drawn  up  into  a  tuft  at  the  crown,  with  two  ringlets 
hanging  heavy  and  deadly  as  small  tired  snakes. 


1T.  3La  (Bfoconfca.1 
•ffir.  &  IRoman 
1Tirir.  Bujerre.3 

WALTER  PATER. 


La  Gioconda  is,  in  the  truest  sense,  Leonardo's 
masterpiece,  the  revealing  instance  of  his  mode  of 
thought  and  work.  In  suggestiveness,  only  the 
Melancholia  of  Durer  is  comparable  to  it  ;  and  no 
5  crude  symbolism  disturbs  the  effect  of  its  subdued  and 
graceful  mystery.  We  all  know  the  face  and  hands  of 
the  figure  set  in  its  marble  chair,  in  that  cirque  of 
fantastic  rocks,  as  in  some  faint  light  under  sea.  Per- 
haps of  all  ancient  pictures  time  has  chilled  it  least. 

10  The  presence  that  thus  rose  so  strangely  beside  the 
waters,  is  expressive  of  what  in  the  ways  of  a  thousand 
years  men  had  come  to  desire.  Hers  is  the  head  upon 
which  all  4<  the  ends  of  the  world  are  come,"  and  the 

1  From  The  Renaissance. 

9  From  Marius  the  Epicurean. 

8  From  Imaginary  Portraits.  Printed  by  kind  permission  of 
Messrs.  Macmillan  &  Company.  The  first  is  description  by 
effect ;  the  other  two,  what  in  painting  is  called  genre  study 
(p.  xxi). 

73 


74  WALTER  PATER. 

eyelids  are  a  little  weary.  It  is  a  beauty  wrought  out 
from  within  upon  the  flesh,  the  deposit,  little  cell  by 
cell,  of  strange  thoughts  and  fantastic  reveries  and 
exquisite  passions.  Set  it  for  a  moment  beside  one  of 
those  white  Greek  goddesses  or  beautiful  women  of  s 
antiquity,  and  how  would  they  be  troubled  by  this 
beauty,  into  which  the  soul  with  all  its  maladies  has 
passed  !  All  the  thoughts  and  experiences  of  the  world 
have  etched  and  moulded  there,  in  that  which  they 
have  of  power  to  refine  and  make  expressive  the  out- 1^ 
ward  form,  the  animalism  of  Greece,  the  lust  of  Rome, 
the  reverie  of  the  middle  age  with  its  spiritual  ambi- 
tion and  imaginative  loves,  the  return  of  the  Pagan 
world,  the  sins  of  the  Borgias.  She  is  older  than  the 
rocks  among  which  she  sits ;  like  the  vampire,  she  15 
has  been  dead  many  times,  and  learned  the  secrets  of 
the  grave  ;  and  has  been  a  diver  in  deep  seas,  and 
keeps  their  fallen  day  about  her  ;  and  trafficked  for 
strange  webs  with  Eastern  merchants  ;  and,  as  Leda, 
was  the  mother  of  Helen  of  Troy,  and,  as  St.  Anne,  20 
the  mother  of  Mary  ;  and  all  this  has  been  to  her  but 
as  the  sound  of  lyres  and  flutes,  and  lives  only  in  the 
delicacy  with  which  it  has  moulded  the  changing  linea- 
ments, and  tinged  the  eyelids  and  the  hands.  The 
fancy  of  a  perpetual  life,  sweeping  together  ten  thou-  25 
sand  experiences,  is  an  old  one  ;  and  modern  thought 
has  conceived  the  idea  of  humanity  as  wrought  upon 
by,  and  summing  up  in  itself,  all  modes  of  thought 
and  life.  Certainly  Lady  Lisa  might  stand  as  the 
embodiment  of  the  old  fancy,  the  symbol  of  the  30 
modern  idea. 


A   ROMAN   VILLA  75 

II. 

THE  traveller,  descending  from  the  slopes  of  Luna, 
even  as  he  got  his  first  view  of  the  Port-of-  Venus, 
would  pause  by  the  way,  to  read  the  face  as  it  were, 
of  so  beautiful  a  dwelling-place,  lying  away  from  the 
5  white  road,  at  the  point  where  it  began  to  decline 
somewhat  steeply  to  the  marsh-land  below.  The 
building  of  pale  red  and  yellow  marble,  mellowed  by 
age,  which  he  saw  beyond  the  gates,  was  indeed  but 
the  exquisite  fragment  of  a  once  large  and  sumptuous 

10  villa.  Two  centuries  of  the  play  of  the  sea-wind  were 
in  the  velvet  of  the  mosses  which  lay  along  its  inac- 
cessible ledges  and  angles.  Here  and  there  the  marble 
plates  had  slipped  from  their  places,  where  the  delicate 
weeds  had  forced  their  way.  The  graceful  wildness 

15  .vhich  prevailed  in  garden  and  farm  gave  place  to  a 
singular  nicety  about  the  actual  habitation,  and  a  still 
more  scrupulous  sweetness  and  order  reigned  within. 
The  old  Roman  architects  seem  to  have  well  under- 
stood the  decorative  value  of  the  floor,  the  real  econ- 

20  omy  there  was,  in  the  production  of  rich  interior  effect, 
of  a  somewhat  lavish  expenditure  upon  the  surface 
they  trod  on.  The  pavement  of  the  hall  had  lost 
something  of  its  evenness  ;  but  though  a  little  rough 
to  the  foot,  polished  and  cared  for  like  a  piece  of 

25  silver,  looked,  as  mosaic-work  is  apt  to  do,  its  best  in 
old  age.  Most  noticeable  among  the  ancestral  masks, 
each  in  its  little  cedarn  chest  below  the  cornice,  was 
that  of  the  wasteful  but  elegant  Marcellus,  with  the 
quaint  resemblance  in  its  yellow  waxen  features  to 

30  Marius,  just  then    so  full  of   animation  and  country 


76  WALTER  PATER. 

colour.  A  chamber,  curved  ingeniously  into  oval 
form,  which  he  had  added  to  the  mansion,  still  con- 
tained his  collection  of  works  of  art ;  above  all,  that 
head  of  Medusa,  for  which  the  villa  was  famous.  The 
spoilers  of  one  of  the  old  Greek  towns  on  the  coast  had  5 
flung  away  or  lost  the  thing,  as  it  seemed,  in  some  rapid 
flight  across  the  river  below,  from  the  sands  of  which  it 
was  drawn  up  in  a  fisherman's  net,  with  the  fine  golden 
lamina  still  clinging  here  and  there  to  the  bronze. 
It  was  Marcellus  also  who  had  contrived  the  prospect- 10 
tower  of  two  stones  with  the  white  pigeon-house 
above,  so  characteristic  of  the  place.  The  little 
glazed  windows  in  the  uppermost  chamber  framed 
each  its  dainty  landscape — the  pallid  crags  of  Carrara, 
like  wildly  twisted  snow-drifts  above  the  purple  heath  ;  15 
the  distant  harbour  with  its  freight  of  white  marble 
going  to  sea  ;  the  lighthouse  temple  of  Venus  Speciosa 
on  its  dark  headland,  amid  the  long-drawn  curves  of 
white  breakers.  Even  on  summer  nights  the  air  there 
had  always  a  motion  in  it,  and  drove  the  scent  of  new-  20 
mown  hay  along  all  the  passages  of  the  house. 

in. 

OP  the  French  town,  properly  so  called,  in  which 
the  products  of  successive  ages,  not  without  lively 
touches  of  the  present,  are  blended  together  harmoni- 
ously with  a  beauty  specific — a  beauty  cisalpine  and  25 
northern,  yet  at  the  same  time  quite  distinct  from  the 
massive  German  picturesque  of  Ulm,  or  Freiburg,  or 
Augsburg,  and  of  which  Turner  has  found  the  ideal 
in  certain  of  his  studies  of  the  rivers  of  France,  a  per- 


AUXERRE.  77 

fectly  happy  conjunction  of  river  and  town  being  of 
the  essence  of  its  physiognomy — the  town  of  Auxerre 
is  perhaps  the  most  complete  realization  to  be  found 
by  the  actual  wanderer.  Certainly  for  picturesque 
5  expression  it  is  the  most  memorable  of  a  distin- 
guished group  of  three  in.  these  parts, — Auxerre,  Sens, 
Troyes — each  gathered,  as  if  with  deliberate  aim  at 
such  effect,  about  the  central  mass  of  a  huge  gray 
cathedral. 

10  Around  Troyes  the  natural  picturesque  is  to  be 
sought  only  in  the  rich,  almost  coarse,  summer  colour- 
ing of  the  champagne  country,  of  which  the  very  tiles, 
the  plaster  and  brickwork  of  its  tiny  villages  and 
great  straggling,  village-like  farms  have  caught  the 

15  warmth.  The  cathedral,  visible  far  and  wide  over  the 
fields  seemingly  of  loose  wild-flowers,  itself  a  rich 
mixture  of  all  the  varieties  of  the  Pointed  style  down 
to  the  latest  Flamboyant,  may  be  noticed  among  the 
greater  French  churches  for  breadth  of  proportions 

20  internally,  and  is  famous  for  its  almost  unrivalled 
treasure  of  stained  glass,  chiefly  of  a  florid,  elaborate, 
later  type,  with  much  highly  conscious  artistic  con- 
trivance in  design  as  well  as  in  colour.  In  one  of  the 
richest  of  its  windows,  for  instance,  certain  lines  of 

25  pearly  white  run  hither  and  thither,  with  delightful 
distant  effect,  upon  ruby  and  dark  blue.  Approach- 
ing nearer  you  find  it  to  be  a  Traveller's  window, 
and  those  odd  lines  of  white  the  long  walking  staves 
in  the  hands  of  Abraham,  Raphael,  the  Magi,  and  the 

30  other  saintly  patrons  of  journeys.  The  appropriate 
provincial  character  of  the  bourgeoisie  of  Cham- 
pagne is  still  to  be  seen,  it  would  appear,  among  the 


78  WALTER  PATER. 

citizens  of  Troyes.  Its  streets,  for  the  most  part  in 
timber  and  pargeting,  present  more  than  one  unaltered 
specimen  of  the  ancient  hdtel  or  town  house,  with  fore- 
court and  garden  in  the  rear  ;  and  its  more  devout 
citizens  would  seem  even  in  their  church-building  to  5 
have  sought  chiefly  to  please  the  eyes  of  those  occu- 
pied with  mundane  affairs  and  out  of  doors,  for  they 
have  finished,  with  abundant  outlay,  only  the  vast, 
useless  portals  of  their  parish  churches,  of  surprising 
height  and  lightness,  in  a  kind  of  wildly  elegant  10 
Gothic  on  stilts,  giving  to  the  streets  of  Troyes  a 
peculiar  air  of  the  grotesque,  as  if  in  some  quaint 
nightmare  of  the  Middle  Age. 

At  Sens,  thirty  miles  away  to  the  west,  a  place  of 
far  graver  aspect,  the  name  of  Jean  Cousin  denotes  15 
a  more  chastened  temper,  even  in  these  sumptuous 
decorations.     Here  all  is  cool  and  composed,  with  an 
almost   English    austerity.     The   first    growth   of   the 
Pointed  style  in  England — the  hard  "  early  English  " 
of  Canterbury — is  indeed  the  creation  of  William,  a  20 
master  reared  in   the  architectural  school  of    Sens  ; 
and  the  severity  of  his  taste  might  seem  to  have  acted 
as  a  restraining  power  on  all  the  subsequent  changes 
of    manner    in    this    place — changes    in    themselves 
for   the  most   part   toward    luxuriance.     In  harmony  25 
with  the  atmosphere  of  its  great  church  is  the  cleanly 
quiet  of  the  town,  kept  fresh  by  litttle  channels  of 
clear  water  circulating  through  its  streets,  derivatives 
of  the  rapid  Vanne  which   falls  just  below  into  the 
Yonne.     The  Yonne,  bedding  gracefully,   link  after  30 
link,  through  a  never-ending  rustle  of  poplar  trees, 
beneath  lowly  vine-clad  hills,  with  relics  of  delicate 


AUXERRE.  79 

woodland  here  and  there,  sometimes  close  at  hand, 
sometimes  leaving  an  interval  of  broad  meadow,  has 
all  the  lightsome  characteristics  of  French  river-side 
scenery  on  a  smaller  scale  than  usual,  and  might  pass 
'  5  for  the  child's  fancy  of  a  river,  like  the  rivers  of  the 
old  miniature  painters,  blue,  and  full  to  a  fair  green 
margin.  One  notices  along  its  course  a  greater  pro- 
portion than  elsewhere  of  still  untouched  old  seignorial 
residences,  larger  or  smaller.  The  range  of  old  gibbous 

10  towns  along  its  banks,  expanding  their  gay  quays  upon 
the  water-side,  have  a  common  character — Joigny,  Ville- 
neuve,  St.  Julien-du-Sault — yet  tempt  us  to  tarry  at  each 
and  examine  its  relics,  old  glass,  and  the  like,  of  the 
Renaissance  or  the  Middle  Age,  for  the  acquisition  of 

15  real,  though  minor  lessons,  on  the  various  arts  which 
have  left  themselves  a  central  monument  at  Auxerre. — 
Auxerre  !  A  slight  ascent  in  the  winding  road  !  and 
you  have  before  you  the  prettiest  town  in  France — 
the  broad  framework  of  vineyard  sloping  upward 

20  gently  to  the  horizon,  with  distant  white  cottages 
inviting  one  to  walk  :  the  quiet  curve  of  river  below, 
with  all  the  river-side  details  :  the  three  great  purple- 
tiled  masses  of  St.  Germain,  St.  Pierre,  and  the  cathe- 
dral of  St.  Etienne,  rising  out  of  the  crowded  houses 

25  with  more  than  the  usual  abruptness  and  irregularity 
of  French  building.  Here  that  rare  artist,  the  sus- 
ceptible painter  of  architecture,  if  he  understands  the 
value  alike  of  line  and  mass,  of  broad  masses  and 
delicate  lines,  has  "a  subject  made  to  his  hand." 

30  A  veritable  country  of  the  vine,  it  presents  never- 
theless an  expression  peaceful  rather  than  radiant. 
Perfect  type  of  that  happy  mean  between  northern 


8o  WALTER  PATER. 

earnestness  and  the  luxury  of  the  south,  for  which  we 
prize  midland  France,  its  physiognomy  is  not  quite 
happy— attractive  in  part  for  its  melancholy.  Its 
most  characteristic  atmosphere  is  to  be  seen  when  the 
tide  of  light  and  distant  cloud  is  travelling  quickly  5 
over  it,  when  rain  is  not  far  off,  and  every  touch  of 
art  or  of  time  on  its  old  building  is  defined  in  clear 
gray.  A  fine  summer  ripens  its  grapes  into  a  valuable 
wine  ;  but  in  spite  of  that  it  seems  always  longing  for 
a  larger  and  more  continuous  allowance  of  the  sun- 10 
shine  that  is  so  much  to  its  taste.  You  might  fancy 
something  querulous  or  plantive  in  that  rustling  move- 
ment of  the  vine-leaves,  as  blue-frocked  Jacques  Bon- 
homme  finishes  his  day's  labour  among  them. 


XI. 
JNote, 

HENRY  JAMES. 

From  A  Little  Tour  in  France.*  Selections  XI,  XII,  and  XIII 
are  also  examples  of  genre  study.  They  should  be  examined  to 
determine  by  what  means  the  author  suggests  constantly  the  typical 
aspect. 

YOUR  business  at  Tours  is  to  make  excursions,  and 
if  you  make  them  all,  you  will  be  very  well  occupied. 
Touraine  is  rich  in  antiquities  ;  and  an  hour's  drive 
from  the  town  in  almost  any  direction  will  bring  you 

5  to  the  knowledge  of  some  curious  fragment  of  domes- 
tic or  ecclesiastical  architecture,  some  turreted  manor, 
some  lonely  tower,  some  gabled  village,  or  historic 
site.  Even,  however,  if  you  do  everything, — which 
was  not  my  case, — you  cannot  hope  to  relate  every- 
10  thing,  and,  fortunately  for  you,  the  excursions  divide 
themselves  into  the  greater  and  the  less.  You  may 
achieve  most  of  the  greater  in  a  week  or  two  ;  but  a 
summer  in  Touraine  (which,  by  the  way,  must  be  a 
charming  thing)  would  contain  none  too  many  days 

f5  for  the  others.  If  you  come  down  to  Tours  from 
Paris,  your  best  economy  is  to  spend  a  few  days  at 
Blois,  where  a  clumsy,  but  rather  attractive  little  inn, 

1  Printed  by  kind  permission  of  Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  $ 
Company. 


82  HENR  Y  JAMES. 

on  the  edge  of  the  river,  will  offer  you  a  certain 
amount  of  that  familiar  and  intermittent  hospitality 
which  a  few  weeks  spent  in  the  French  provinces 
teaches  you  to  regard  as  the  highest  attainable  form 
of  accommodation.  Such  an  economy  I  was  unable  5 
to  practise.  I  could  only  go  to  Blois  (from  Tours) 
to  spend  the  day  ;  but  this  feat  I  accomplished  twice 
over.  It  is  a  very  sympathetic  little  town,  as  we  say 
nowadays,  and  one  might  easily  resign  one's  self  to  a 
week  there.  Seated  on  the  north  bank  of  the  Loire,  10 
it  presents  a  bright,  clean  face  to  the  sun,  and  has 
that  aspect  of  cheerful  leisure  which  belongs  to  all 
white  towns  that  reflect  themselves  in  shining  waters. 
It  is  the  water-front  only  of  Blois,  however,  that  ex- 
hibits this  fresh  complexion  ;  the  interior  is  of  a  15 
proper  brownness,  as  befits  a  signally  historic  city. 
The  only  disappointment  I  had  there  was  the  dis- 
covery that  the  castle,  which  is  the  special  object  of 
one's  pilgrimage,  does  not  overhang  the  river,  as  I  had 
always  allowed  myself  to  understand.  It  overhangs  20 
the  town,  but  it  is  scarcely  visible  from  the  stream. 
That  peculiar  good  fortune  is  reserved  for  Amboise 
and  Chaumont. 

The  Chateau  de  Blois  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
and  elaborate  of  all  the  old  royal  residences  of  this  25 
part  of  France,  and  I  suppose  it  should  have  all  the 
honours  of  my  description.     As  you  cross  its  thresh- 
old, you  step  straight  into  the  brilliant  movement  of 
the  French  Renaissance.     But  it  is  too  rich  to  describe 
— I  can  only  touch  it  here  and  there.     It  must  be  pre-  30 
mised  that  in  speaking  of  it  as  one  sees  it  to-day,  one 
speaks  of   3.  monument   unsparingly  restored.     The 


BLOIS.  83 

work  of  restoration  has  been  as  ingenious  as  it  is  pro- 
fuse, but  it  rather  chills  the  imagination.  This  is  per- 
haps almost  the  first  thing  you  feel  as  you  approach 
the  castle  from  the  streets  of  the  town.  These  little 
5  streets,  as  they  leave  the  river,  have  pretensions  to 
romantic  steepness  :  one  of  them,  indeed,  which 
resolves  itself  into  a  high  staircase  with  divergent 
wings  (the  escalier  monumental],  achieved  this  result 
so  successfully  as  to  remind  me  vaguely — I  hardly 

10  know  why — of  the  great  slope  of  the  Capitol,  beside 
the  Ara  Cceli,  at  Rome.  The  view  of  that  part  of  the 
castle  which  figures  to-day  as  the  back  (it  is  the  only 
aspect  I  had  seen  reproduced)  exhibits  the  marks  of 
restoration  with  the  greatest  assurance.  The  long 

15  facade,  consisting  only  of  balconied  windows  deeply 
recessed,  erects  itself  on  the  summit  of  a  considerable 
hill,  which  gives  a  fine,  plunging  movement  to  its 
foundations.  The  deep  niches  of  the  windows  are  all 
aglow  with  colour.  They  have  been  repainted  with 

20  red  and  blue,  relieved  with  gold  figures  ;  and  each  of 
them  looks  more  like  the  royal  box  at  a  theatre  than 
like  the  aperture  of  a  palace  dark  with  memories. 
For  all  this,  however,  and  in  spite  of  the  fact  that,  as 
in  some  others  of  the  chateaux  of  Touraine  (always 

25  excepting  the  colossal  Chambord,  which  is  not  in 
Touraine  !),  there  is  less  vastness  than  one  had  ex^ 
pected,  the  least  hospitable  aspect  of  Blois  is  abund- 
antly impressive.  Here,  as  elsewhere,  lightness  ancj 
grace  are  the  keynote  ;  and  the  recesses  of  the  win- 

30  dows,  with  their  happy  proportions,  their  sculpture, 
and  their  colour,  are  the  empty  frames  of  brilliant 
pictures.  They  need  the  figure  of  a  Francis  I.  19 


84  HENR  Y  JA  MES. 

complete  them,  or  of  a  Diane  de  Poitiers,  or  even  of 
a  Henry  III.  The  base  of  this  exquisite  structure 
emerges  from  a  bed  of  light  verdure,  which  has  been 
allowed  to  mass  itself  there,  and  which  contributes  to 
the  springing  look  of  the  walls  ;  while  on  the  right  it  5 
joins  the  most  modern  portion  of  the  castle,  the  build- 
ing erected,  on  foundations  of  enormous  height  and 
solidity,  in  1635,  by  Gaston  d'Orleans.  This  fine, 
frigid  mansion — the  proper  view  of  it  is  from  the 
court  within — is  one  of  the  masterpieces  of  Francois  10 
Mansard,  whom  a  kind  providence  did  not  allow  to 
make  over  the  whole  palace  in  the  superior  manner  of 
his  superior  age.  This  had  been  a  part  of  Gaston's 
plan — he  was  a  blunderer  born,  and  this  precious  pro- 
ject was  worthy  of  him.  The  execution  of  it  would  15 
surely  have  been  one  of  the  great  misdeeds  of  history. 
Partially  performed,  the  misdeed  is  not  altogether  to 
be  regretted;  for  as  one  stands  in  the  court  of  the 
castle  and  lets  one's  eye  wander  from  the  splendid 
wing  of  Francis  I. — which  is  the  last  word  of  free  and  20 
joyous  invention — to  the  ruled  lines  and  blank  spaces 
of  the  ponderous  pavilion  of  Mansard,  one  makes  one's 
reflections  upon  the  advantage,  in  even  the  least  per- 
sonal of  the  arts,  of  having  something  to  say,  and 
upon  the  stupidity  of  a  taste  which  had  ended  by  25 
becoming  an  aggregation  of  negatives.  Gaston's 
wing,  taken  by  itself,  has  much  of  the  bel  air,  which 
was  to  belong  to  the  architecture  of  Louis  XIV. ;  but, 
taken  in  contrast  to  its  flowering,  laughing,  living 
neighbour,  it  marks  the  difference  between  inspiration  30 
and  calculation.  We  scarcely  grudge  it  its  place, 
however,  for  it  adds  a  price  to  the  rest  of  the  chateau. 


BL01S.  85 

We  have  entered  the  court,  by  the  way,  by  jumping 
over  the  walls.  The  more  orthodox  method  is  to  fol- 
low a  modern  terrace,  which  leads  to  the  left,  from 
the  side  of  the  chateau  that  I  began  by  speaking  of, 
5  and  passes  round,  ascending,  to  a  little  square  on  a 
considerably  higher  level,  which  is  not,  like  the  very 
modern  square  on  which  the  back  (as  I  have  called 
it)  looks  out,  a  thoroughfare.  This  small,  empty 
place,  oblong  in  form,  at  once  bright  and  quiet,  with  a 

10  certain  grass-grown  look,  offers  an  excellent  setting  to 
the  entrance-front  of  the  palace — the  wing  of  Louis 
XII.  The  restoration  here  has  been  lavish  ;  but  it 
was,  perhaps,  but  an  inevitable  reaction  against  the 
injuries,  still  more  lavish,  by  which  the  unfortunate 

15  building  had  long  been  overwhelmed.  It  had  fallen 
into  a  state  of  ruinous  neglect,  relieved  only  by  the 
misuse  proceeding  from  successive  generations  of 
soldiers,  for  whom  its  charming  chambers  served  as 
barrack  room.  Whitewashed,  mutilated,  dishonoured, 

20  the  castle  of  Blois  may  be  said  to  have  escaped  sim- 
ply with  its  life.  This  is  the  history  of  Amboise  as 
well,  and  is  to  a  certain  extent  the  history  of  Cham- 
bord.  Delightful,  at  any  rate,  was  the  refreshed  fagade 
of  Louis  XII.  as  I  stood  and  looked  at  it  one  bright 

25  September  morning.  In  that  soft,  clear,  merry  light 
of  Touraine,  everything  shows,  everything  speaks. 
Charming  are  the  taste,  the  happy  proportions,  the 
colour  of  this  beautiful  front,  to  which  the  new  feeling 
for  a  purely  domestic  architecture — an  architecture 

30  of  security  and  tranquillity,  in  which  art  could  in- 
dulge itself — gave  an  air  of  youth  and  gladness.  It 
is  true  that  for  a  long  time  to  come  the  castle  of 


86  HENR  Y  JAMES. 

Blois  was  neither  very  safe  nor  very  quiet  ;  but  its 
dangers  came  from  within,  from  the  evil  passions  of 
its  inhabitants,  and  not  from  siege  or  invasion.  The 
front  of  Louis  XII.  is  of  red  brick,  crossed  here  and 
there  with  purple  ;  and  the  purple  slate  of  the  high  5 
roof,  relieved  with  chimneys  beautifully  treated,  and 
with  the  embroidered  caps  of  pinnacles  and  arches, 
with  the  porcupine  of  Louis,  the  ermine  and  the  fes- 
tooned rope  which  formed  the  devices  of  Anne  of 
Brittany — the  tone  of  this  rich-looking  roof  carries  10 
out  the  mild  glow  of  the  wall.  The  wide,  fair  win- 
dows look  as  if  they  had  expanded  to  let  in  the  *osy 
dawn  of  the  Renaissance.  Charming,  for  that  matter, 
are  the  windows  of  all  the  chateaux  of  Touraine, 
with  their  squareness  corrected  (as  it  is  not  in  the  15 
Tudor  architecture)  by  the  curve  of  the  upper  cor- 
ners, which  makes  this  line  look — above  the  expres- 
sive aperture — like  a  pencilled  eyebrow.  The  low 
door  of  this  front  is  crowned  by  a  high,  deep  niche, 
in  which,  under  a  splendid  canopy,  stiffly  astride  of  a  20 
stiffly  draped  charger,  sits  in  profile  an  image  of  the 
good  King  Louis.  Good  as  he  had  been — the  father 
of  his  people,  as  he  was  called  (I  believe  he  remitted 
various  taxes) — he  was  not  good  enough  to  pass  mus- 
ter at  the  Revolution  ;  and  the  effigy  I  have  just  25 
described  is  no  more  than  a  reproduction  of  the 
primitive  statue  demolished  at  that  period. 

Pass  beneath  it  into  the  court,  and  the  sixteenth 
century  closes  round  you.     It  is  a  pardonable  flight 
of  fancy  to  say  that  the  expressive  faces  of  an  age  in  30 
which  human  passions  lay  very  near  the  surface  seem 
to  look  out  at  you  from  the  windows,  from  the  balcc- 


BLOTS.  87 

nies,  from  the  thick  foliage  of  the  sculpture.  The 
portion  of  the  wing  of  Louis  XII.  that  looks  toward 
the  court  is  supported  on  a  deep  arcade.  On  your 
right  is  the  wing  erected  by  Francis  I.,  the  reverse  of 
5  the  mass  of  building  which  you  see  on  approaching 
the  castle.  This  exquisite,  this  extravagant,  this 
transcendent  piece  of  architecture  is  the  most  joyous 
utterance  of  the  French  Renaissance.  It  is  covered 
with  an  embroidery  of  sculpture,  in  which  every  detail 

10  is  worthy  of  the  hand  of  a  goldsmith.  In  the  middle 
of  it,  or  rather  a  little  to  the  left,  rises  the  famous 
winding  staircase  (plausibly,  but  I  believe  not  relig- 
iously, restored),  which  even  the  ages  which  most  mis- 
used it  must  vaguely  have  admired.  It  forms  a  kind 

*5  of  chiselled  cylinder,  with  wide  interstices,  so  that  the 
stairs  are  open  to  the  air.  Every  inch  of  this  struc- 
ture, of  its  balconies,  its  pillars,  its  great  central  col- 
umns is  wrought  over  with  lovely  images,  strange  and 
ingenious  devices,  prime  among  which  is  the  great 

20  heraldic  salamander  of  Francis  I.  The  salamander 
is  everywhere  at  Blois — over  the  chimneys,  over  the 
doors,  on  the  wills.  This  whole  quarter  of  the  castle 
bears  the  stamp  of  that  eminently  pictorial  prince. 
The  running  cornice  along  the  top  of  the  front  is  like 

25  an  unfolded,  an  elongated,  bracelet.  The  windows  of 
the  attic  are  like  shrines  for  saints.  The  gargoyles, 
the  medallions,  the  statuettes,  the  festoons,  are  like  the 
elaboration  of  some  precious  cabinet  rather  than  the 
details  of  a  building  exposed  to  the  weather  and  the 

30  ages.  In  the  interior  there  is  a  profusion  of  restora- 
tion, and  it  is  all  restoration  in  colour.  This  has  been, 
evidently,  a  work  of  great  energy  and  cost,  but  it  wiJJ 


88  HENRY  JAMES. 

easily  strike  you  as  overdone.  The  universal  fresh* 
ness  is  a  discord,  a  false  note  ;  it  seems  to  light  up 
the  dusky  past  with  an  unnatural  glare.  Begun  in  the 
reign  of  Louis  Philippe,  this  terrible  process — the 
more  terrible  always  the  more  you  admit  that  it  has  5 
been  necessary — has  been  carried  so  far  that  there  is 
now  scarcely  a  square  inch  of  the  interior  that  has  the 
colour  of  the  past  upon  it.  It  is  true  that  the  place 
had  been  so  coated  over  with  modern  abuse  that 
something  was  needed  to  keep  it  alive  ;  it  is  only,  10 
perhaps,  a  pity  that  the  restorers,  not  content  with 
saving  its  life,  should  have  undertaken  to  restore  its 
youth.  The  love  of  consistency,  in  such  a  business, 
is  a  dangerous  lure.  All  the  old  apartments  have 
been  rechristened,  as  it  were  ;  the  geography  of  the  15 
castle  has  been  re-established.  The  guard  rooms,  the 
bedrooms,  the  closets,  the  oratories,  have  recovered 
their  identity.  Every  spot  connected  with  the  mur- 
der of  the  Duke  of  Guise  is  pointed  out  by  a  small, 
shrill  boy,  who  takes  you  from  room  to  room,  and  »o 
who  has  learned  his  lesson  in  perfection.  The  place 
is  full  of  Catherine  de'  Medici,  of  Henry  III.,  of 
memories,  of  ghosts,  of  echoes,  of  possible  evoca- 
tions and  revivals.  It  is  covered  with  crimson  and 
gold.  The  fireplaces  and  the  ceilings  are  magnificent;  25 
they  look  like  expensive  "  sets  "  at  the  grand  opera. 

I  should  have  mentioned  that  below,  in  the  court, 
the  front  of  the  wing  of  Gaston  d'Orleans  faces  you  as 
you  enter,  so  that  the  place  is  a  course  of  French 
history.  Inferior  in  beauty  and  grace  to  the  other  30 
portions  of  the  castle,  the  wing  is  yet  a  nobler  monu- 
ment than  the  memory  of  Gaston  deserves.  The 


BLOIS.  89 

second  of  the  sons  of  Henry  IV., — who  was  no  more 
fortunate  as  a  father  than  as  a  husband, — younger 
brother  of  Louis  XIII.,  and  father  of  the  great  Made- 
moiselle, the  most  celebrated,  most  ambitious,  most 
5  self-complacent,  and  most  unsuccessful  fille  a  marier 
in  French  history,  passed,  in  enforced  retirement  at 
the  Castle  of  Blois,  the  close  of  a  life  of  clumsy  intrigues 
against  Cardinal  Richelieu,  in  which  his  rashness 
was  only  equalled  by  his  pusillanimity,  and  his  ill-luck 

TO  by  his  inaccessibility  to  correction,  and  which,  after  so 
many  follies  and  shames,  was  properly  summed  up  in  the 
project — begun,  but  not  completed — of  demolishing 
the  beautiful  habitation  of  his  exile  in  order  to  erect 
a  better  one.  With  Gaston  d'Orleans,  however,  who 

15  lived  there  without  dignity,  the  history  of  the  Chateau 
de  Blois  declines.  Its  interesting  period  is  that  of 
the  wars  of  religion.  It  was  the  chief  residence  of 
Henry  III.,  and  the  scene  of  the  principal  events  of 
his  depraved  and  dramatic  reign.  It  has  been  re- 

20  stored  more  than  enough,  as  I  have  said,  by  architects 
and  decorators  ;  the  visitor,  as  he  moves  through  its 
empty  rooms,  which  are  at  once  brilliant  and  ill-lighted 
(they  have  not  been  refurnished),  undertakes  a  little 
restoration  of  his  own.  His  imagination  helps  itself 

25  from  the  things  that  remain  ;  he  tries  to  see  the  life  of 
the  sixteenth  century  in  its  form  and  dress — its  tur- 
bulence, its  passions,  its  loves  and  hates,  its  treacheries, 
falsities,  touches  of  faith,  its  latitude  of  personal  de- 
velopment, its  presentation  of  the  whole  nature,  its 

30  nobleness  of  costume,  charm  of  speech,  splendour  of 
taste,  unequalled  picturesqueness.  The  picture  is  full 
of  movement,  of  contrasted  light  and  darkness,  full 


90  HENR  Y  JA  MRS. 

altogether  of  abominations.  Mixed  up  with  them  all 
is  the  great  name  of  religion,  so  that  the  drama  wants 
nothing  to  make  it  complete.  What  episode  was  ever 
more  perfect — looked  at  as  a  dramatic  occurrence — than 
the  murder  of  the  Duke  of  Guise  ?  The  insolent  pros-  5 
perity  of  the  victim  ;  the  weakness,  the  vices,  the  terrors, 
of  the  author  of  the  deed  ;  the  perfect  execution  of  the 
plot  ;  the  accumulation  of  horror  in  what  followed  it, 
give  it,  as  a  crime,  a  kind  of  immortal  solidity. 

But  we   must  not   take   the  Chateau  de  Blois  too  10 
hard  :  I  went  there,  after  all,  by  way  of  entertainment. 
If  among  these    sinister   memories  your  visit  should 
threaten  to  prove  a  tragedy,  there  is  an  excellent  way 
of  removing  the  impression.     You  may  treat  yourself 
at  Blois  to  a  very  cheerful   after-piece.     There  is  a  15 
charming  industry  practised  there,  and   practised  in 
charming   conditions.     Follow  the  bright  little  quay 
down  the  river  till  you  get  quite  out  of  the  town,  and 
reach  the  point  where  the  road  beside  the  Loire  be- 
comes sinuous  and  attractive,  turns  the  corner  of  di-2o 
minutive  headlands,  and  makes  you  wonder  what  is 
beyond.     Let  not  your  curiosity  induce  you,  however, 
to  pass  by  a  modest  white  villa  which  overlooks  the 
stream,  enclosed  in  a  fresh  little  court  ;  for  here  dwells 
an  artist — an  artist  in  faience.     There  is  no  sort  of  25 
sign,  and  the  place  looks  peculiarly  private.     But  if 
you  ring  at  the  gate  you  will  not  be  turned  away. 
You  will,  on  the  contrary,  be  ushered  upstairs  into  a 
parlour— there  is  nothing  resembling  a  shop— encum- 
bered with  specimens  of  remarkably  handsome  pottery.  30 
The  work  is  of  the  best— a  careful  reproduction  of 
old  forms,  colours,  devices  ;    and  the  master  of  the 


BLOTS.  91 

establishment  is  one  of  those  completely  artistic  types 
that  are  often  found  in  France.  His  reception  is  as 
friendly  as  his  work  is  ingenious  ;  and  I  think  it  is  not 
too  much  to  say  that  you  like  the  work  the  better 
5  because  he  has  produced  it.  His  vases,  cups  and  jars, 
lamps,  platters,  plaques,  with  their  brilliant  glaze,  their 
innumerable  figures,  their  family  likeness,  and  wide 
variations,  are  scattered  through  his  occupied  rooms  ; 
they  serve  at  once  as  his  stock-in-trade  and  as  house- 

10  hold  ornament.  As  we  all  know,  this  is  an  age  of 
prose,  of  machinery,  of  wholesale  production,  of  coarse 
and  hasty  processes.  But  one  brings  away  from  the 
establishment  of  the  very  intelligent  M.  Ulysse  the 
sense  of  a  less  eager  activity  and  a  greater  search  for 

15  perfection.  He  has  but  a  few  workmen,  and  he  gives 
them  plenty  of  time.  The  place  makes  a  little  vignette, 
leaves  an  impression, — the  quiet  white  house  in  its 
garden  on  the  road  by  the  wide,  clear  river,  without 
the  smoke,  the  bustle,  the  ugliness,  of  so  much  of  our 

20  modern  industry.     It  ought  to  gratify  Mr.  Ruskin. 


orrHr 
UNIVERSITY 

or 


XII. 

Spring  in  a  SfDe  Street 
BRANDER  MATTHEWS. 

From  Vignettes  of  Manhattan*  This  is  an  especially  careful 
study  in  "  local  colour."  The  details,  that  is,  belong,  not  to  any 
large  city,  but  to  New  York.  To  secure  local  colour  has  been  a 
main  effort  in  many  recent  short  stories,  as  in  George  W.  Cable's 
of  Creole  Louisiana,  Miss  Murfree's  of  the  Tennessee  Moun- 
tains, Miss  Wilkins's  of  the  New  England  village,  J.  M.  Barrie's 
of  the  Scotch  village,  W.  D.  Howells's  of  Boston,  and  so  on 
through  a  long  list. 

Students  in  advanced  courses  may  profitably  spend  some  time 
in  attempting  stories  each  of  his  own  particular  environment  (see 
Specimens  of  Narration,  Introduction) ;  but  every  student 
should  be  urged  from  the  beginning  to  realize  his  own  environ- 
ment in  description. 

IN  the  city  the  spring  comes  earlier  than  it  does  in 
the  country,  and  the  horse-chestnuts  in  the  sheltered 
squares  sometimes  break  into  blossom  a  fortnight  be- 
fore their  brethren  in  the  open  fields.  That  year  the 
spring  came  earlier  than  usual,  both  in  the  country 
and  in  the  city,  for  March,  going  out  like  a  lion,  made 
an  April-fool  of  the  following  month,  and  the  huge 
banks  of  snow  heaped  high  by  the  sidewalks  vanished 
in  three  or  four  days,  leaving  the  gutters  only  a  little 

Copyright,  1894,  Harper  &  Brothers.  Printed  by  kind  per- 
mission  of  the  publishers. 


SPRING  IN  A    SIDE   STREET.  93 

thicker  with  mud   than  they  are  accustomed   to  be. 

Very  trying  to   the  convalescent   was    the   uncertain 

weather,   with    its  obvious  inability  to  know  its  own 

mind,  with   its   dark  fog  one   morning  and    its  brisk 

5  wind  in  the  afternoon,  with   its  mid-day  as  bright  as 

June  and  its  sudden  chill  descending  before  nightfall 

Yet  when  the  last  week  of  April  came,  and   the 

grass  in  the  little  square  around  the  corner  was  green 

again,  and  the  shrubs  were  beginning  to  flower  out,  the 

to  sick  man  also  felt  his  vigour  returning.  His  strength 
came  back  with  the  spring,  and  restored  health  sent 
fresh  blood  coursing  through  his  veins  as  the  sap  was 
rising  in  the  branches  of  the  tree  before  his  window. 
He  had  had  a  hard  struggle,  he  knew,  although  he  did 

15  not  suspect  that  more  than  once  he  had  wrestled  with 
death  itself.  Now  his  appetite  had  awakened  again, 
and  he  had  more  force  to  withstand  the  brooding  sad- 
ness which  sought  to  master  him. 

The  tree  before  his  window  was  but  a  shabby  syca- 

20  more,  and  the  window  belonged  to  a  hall  bedroom  in 
a  shabby  boarding-house  down  a  side  street.  The 
young  man  himself  lay  back  in  the  steamer  chair  lent 
him  by  one  of  the  few  friends  he  had  in  town,  and  his 
overcoat  was  thrown  over  his  knees.  His  hands. 

25  shrunken  yet  sinewy,  lay  crossed  upon  a  book  in  his 
lap.  His  body  was  wasted  by  sickness,  but  the  frame 
was  well  knit  and  solid.  His  face  was  still  white  and 
thin,  although  the  yellow  pallor  of  the  sick-bed  had 
gone  already.  His  scanty  boyish  beard  that  curled 

30  about  his  chin  had  not  been  trimmed  for  two  months, 
and  his  uncut  brown  hair  fell  thickly  on  the  collar  of 
his  coat.  His  dark  eyes  bore  the  mark  of  recent 


94  BRANDER  MATTHEWS. 

suffering,   but    they   revealed   also   a   steadfast   soul, 
strong  to  withstand  misfortune. 

His  room  was  on  the  north  side  of  the  street,  and 
the  morning  sun  shone  in  his  window,  as  he  lay  back 
in  the  chair,  grateful  for  its  warmth.  A  heavy  cart  5 
lumbered  along  slowly  over  the  worn  and  irregular 
pavement ;  it  came  to  a  stand  at  the  corner,  and  a 
gang  of  workmen  swiftly  emptied  it  of  the  steel  rails  it 
contained,  dropping  them  on  the  sidewalk  one  by  one 
with  a  loud  clang  which  reverberated  harshly  far  down  10 
the  street.  From  the  little  knot  of  men  who  were  re- 
laying the  horse-car  track  came  cries  of  command,  and 
then  a  rail  would  drop  into  position,  and  be  spiked 
swiftly  to  its  place.  Then  the  labourers  would  draw 
aside  while  an  arrested  horse-car  urged  forward  again,  15 
with  the  regular  footfall  of  its  one  horse,  as  audible 
above  the  mighty  roar  of  the  metropolis  as  the  jingle 
of  the  little  bell  on  the  horse's  collar.  At  last  there 
came  from  over  the  house-tops  a  loud  whistle  of 
escaping  steam,  followed  shortly  by  a  dozen  similar  20 
signals,  proclaiming  the  mid-day  rest.  A  rail  or  two 
more  clanged  down  on  the  others,  and  then  the  cart 
rumbled  away.  The  workmen  relaying  the  track  had 
already  seated  themselves  on  the  curb  to  eat  their 
dinner,  while  one  of  them  had  gone  to  the  saloon  at  25 
the  corner  for  a  large  can  of  the  new  beer  advertised 
in  the  window  by  the  gaudy  lithograph  of  a  frisky 
young  goat  bearing  a  plump  young  goddess  on  his 
back. 

The  invalid  was  glad  of  the  respite  from  the  more  30 
violent  noises  of  track-layers,  for  his  head  was  not  yet 
as  clear  as  it  might  be,  and  his  nerves  were  strained 


SPRING  IN  A    SIDE   STREET.  95 

by  pain.  He  leaned  forward  and  looked  down  at  the 
street  below,  catching  the  eye  of  a  young  man  who 
was  bawling  "  Straw-b'rees  !  straw-b'rees  !"  at  the  top 
of  an  unmelodious  voice.  The  invalid  smiled,  for  he 
5  knew  that  the  street  venders  of  strawberries  were  an 
infallible  sign  of  spring — an  indication  of  its  arrival 
as  indisputable  as  the  small  square  labels  announcing 
that  three  of  the  houses  opposite  to  him  were  "  To 
.Let."  The  first  of  May  was  at  hand.  He  wondered 

10  whether  the  flower-market  in  Union  Square  had  al- 
ready opened  ;  and  he  recalled  the  early  mornings  of 
the  preceding  spring,  when  the  girl  he  loved,  the  girl 
who  had  promised  to  marry  him,  had  gone  with  him  to 
Union  Square  to  pick  out  young  roses  and  full  blown 

15  geraniums  worthy  to  bloom  in  the  windows  of  her 
parlour  looking  out  on  Central  Park. 

He  thought  of  her  often  that  morning,  and  without 
bitterness,  though  their  engagement  had  been  broken 
in  the  fall,  three  months  or  more  before  he  v/as  taken 

20  sick.  He  had  not  seen  her  since  Christmas,  and  he 
found  himself  wondering  how  she  would  look  that 
afternoon,  and  whether  she  was  happy.  His  reverie 
was  broken  by  the  jangling  notes  of  an  ill-tuned  piano 
in  the  next  house,  separated  from  his  little  room  only 

25  by  a  thin  party-wall.       Someone   was   trying   to  pick/ 
out  the  simple  tune  of  "  Wait  till  the  clouds  roll  by." 
Seemingly  it  was    the  practice    hour  for  one  of  the 
children  next  door,  whose  playful  voices  he  had  often 
heard.     Seemingly  also   the  task  was  unpleasant,   for 

30  the  piano  and  the  tune  and  the  hearer  suffered  from 
the  ill-will  of  the  childish  performer. 

A  sudden  hammering  o.r  a  steel  rail   in  the  street 


96  BRANDER  MATTHEWS. 

below  notified  him  the  nooning  was  over,  and  that  the 
workmen  had  gone  back  to  their  labours.  Somehow 
he  had  failed  to  hear  the  stroke  of  one  from  the 
steeple  of  the  church  at  the  corner  of  the  avenue,  a 
short  block  away.  Now  he  became  conscious  of  a  per-  5 
mealing  odour,  and  he  knew  that  the  luncheon  hour  of 
die  boarding-house  had  arrived.  He  had  waked  early, 
and  his  breakfast  had  been  very  light.  He  felt  ready  for 
food,  and  he  was  glad  when  the  servant  brought  him  up 
a  plate  of  cold  beef  and  a  saucer  of  prunes.  His  appe- 10 
tite  was  excellent,  and  he  ate  with  relish  and  enjoyment. 
When  he  had  made  an  end  of  his  unpretending 
meal,  he  leaned  back  again  in  his  chair.  A  turbulent 
wind  blew  the  dust  of  the  street  high  in  the  air  and 
set  swinging  the  budding  branches  of  the  sycamore  15 
before  the  window.  As  he  looked  at  the  tender  green 
of  the  young  leaves  dancing  before  him  in  the  sun- 
light he  felt  the  spring-time  stir  his  blood  ;  he  was 
strong  again  with  the  strength  of  youth  ;  he  was  able 
to  cope  with  all  morbid  fancies,  and  to  cast  away  all  20 
repining.  He  wished  himself  in  the  country — some- 
where where  there  were  brooks  and  groves  and  grass — 
somewhere  where  there  were  quiet  and  rest  and  sur- 
cease of  noise — somewhere  where  there  were  time  and 
space  to  think  out  the  past  and  to  plan  out  the  future  25 
resolutely — somewhere  where  there  were  not  two 
hand-organs  at  opposite  ends  of  the  block  vying  which 
should  be  the  more  violent,  one  playing  "  Annie 
Laurie  "  and  the  other  "  Annie  Rooney."  He  winced 
as  the  struggle  between  the  two  organs  attained  its  30 
height,  while  the  child  next  door  pounded  the  piano 
more  viciously  than  before.  Then  he  smiled. 


SPRING  IN  A    SIDE   STREET.  97 

With  returning  health,  why  should  he  mind  petty 
annoyances  ?  In  a  week  or  so  he  would  be  able  to  go 
back  to  the  store  and  to  begin  again  to  earn  his  own 
living.  No  doubt  the  work  would  be  hard  at  first, 
5  but  hard  work  was  what  he  needed  now.  For  the 
sake  of  its  results  in  the  future,  and  for  its  own  sake 
also,  he  needed  severe  labour.  Other  young  men  there 
were  a-plenty  in  the  thick  of  the  struggle,  but  he  knew 
himself  as  stout  of  heart  as  any  in  the  whole  city,  and 

10  why  might  not  fortune  favour  him  too  ?     With  money 

and  power  and  position   he  could  hold  his  own  in 

New  York  ;  and  perhaps  some  of  those  who  thought 

little  of  him  now  would  then  be  glad  to  know  him. 

While  he  lay  back  in   the  steamer  chair  in  his  hall 

15  room  the  shadows  began  to  lengthen  a  little,  and  the 
long  day  drew  nearer  to  its  end.  When  next  he 
roused  himself  the  hand-organs  had  both  gone  away, 
and  the  child  next  door  had  given  over  her  practising, 
and  the  street  was  quiet  again,  save  for  the  high  notes 

20  of  a  soprano  voice  singing  a  florid  aria  by  an  open 
window  in  the  conservatory  of  music  in  the  next 
block,  and  save  also  for  an  unusual  rattle  of  vehicles 
drawing  up  almost  in  front  of  the  door  of  the  board- 
ing-house. With  an  effort  he  raised  himself,  and  saw 

25  a  line  of  carriages  on  the  other  side  of  the  way,  mov- 
ing slowly  toward  the  corner.  A  swirling  sand-storm 
sprang  up  again  in  the  street  below,  and  a  simoom  of 
dust  almost  hid  from  him  the  faces  of  those  who  sat 
in  the  carriages — young  girls  dressed  in  light  colours, 

30  and  young  men  with  buttoned  frock-coats.  They 
were  chatting  easily  ;  now  and  again  a  gay  laugh  rang 
out. 


98  BRANDER  MATTHEWS. 

He  wondered  if  it  were  time  for  the  wedding, 
With  difficulty  he  twisted  himself  in  his  chair  and  took 
from  the  bureau  behind  him  an  envelope  containing 
the  wedding-cards.  The  ceremony  was  fixed  for 
three.  He  looked  at  his  watch,  and  he  saw  that  it  5 
lacked  but  a  few  minutes  of  that  hour.  His  hand 
trembled  a  little  as  he  put  the  watch  back  in  his 
pocket  ;  and  he  gazed  steadily  into  space  until  the 
bell  in  the  steeple  of  the  church  at  the  corner  of  the 
avenue  struck  three  times.  The  hour  appointed  for  10 
the  wedding  had  arrived.  There  were  still  carriages 
driving  up  swiftly  to  deposit  belated  guests. 

The  convalescent  young  man  in  the  little  hall  bed- 
room of  the  shabby  boarding-house  in  the  side  street 
was  not  yet  strong  enough  to  venture  out  in  the  spring  15 
sunshine  and  to  be  present  at  the  ceremony.     But  as 
he  lay  there  in  the  rickety  steamer  chair  with  the  old 
overcoat   across   his   knees,    he   had  no  difficulty  in 
evoking  the  scene  in  the  church.    He  saw  the  middle- 
aged   groom   standing  at  the  rail  awaiting  the  bride.  20 
He  heard  the  solemn  and  yet  joyous  strains  of  the 
wedding-march.     He  saw  the  bride  pass  slowly  up  the 
aisle   on   the  arm  of   her  father,  with    the  lace  veil 
scarcely  lighter  or  fairer  than  her  own  filmy  hair.    He 
wondered  whether  she  would  be  pale,  and  whether  25 
her  conscience  would  reproach  her  as  she  stood  at  the 
altar.     He  heard  the  clergyman  ask  the  questions  and 
pronounce  the  benediction.     He  saw  the  new-made 
wife  go  down  the  aisle  again  on  the  arm  of  her  hus- 
band.    He  sighed  wearily,  and  lay  back  in  his  chair  30 
with  his  eyes  closed,  as  though  to  keep  out  the  unwel- 
come vision.     He  did  not  move  when  the  carnages 


SPRING  IN  A    SIDE   STREE7\  99 

again  crowded  past  his  door,  and  went  up  to  the 
church  porch  one  after  another  in  answer  to  hoarse 
calls  from  conflicting  voices. 

He  lay  there  for  a  long  while  motionless  and  silent. 
$  He  was  thinking  about  himself,  about  his  hopes,  which 
had  been  as  bright  as  the  sunshine  of  spring,  about  his 
bitter  disappointment.  He  was  pondering  on  the 
mysteries  of  the  universe,  and  asking  himself  whether 
he  could  be  of  any  use  to  the  world — for  he  still  had 

10  high  ambitions.  He  was  wondering  what  might  be 
the  value  of  any  one  man's  labour  for  his  fellow-men, 
and  he  thought  harshly  of  the  order  of  things.  He 
said  to  himself  that  we  all  slip  out  of  sight  when  we  die, 
and  the  waters  close  over  us,  for  the  best  of  us  are 

15  soon  forgotten,  and  so  are  the  worst,  since  it  makes 
little  difference  whether  the  coin  you  throw  into  the 
pool  is  gold  or  copper — the  rarer  metal  does  not  make 
the  more  ripples.  Then,  as  he  saw  the  long  shafts  of 
almost  level  sunshine  sifting  through  the  tiny  leaves 

20  of  the  tree  before  his  window,  he  took  heart  again  as 
he  recalled  the  great  things  accomplished  by  one  man. 
He  gave  over  his  mood  of  self-pity  ;  and  he  even 
smiled  at  the  unconscious  conceit  of  his  attitude 
toward  himself. 

25  He  was  recalled  from  his  long  reverie  by  the  thun- 
dering of  a  heavy  fire-engine,  which  crashed  its  way 
down  the  street,  with  its  rattling  hose-reel  tearing 
along  after  it.  In  the  stillness  that  followed,  broken 
only  by  the  warning  whistles  of  the  engine  as  it 

30  crossed  avenue  after  avenue  further  and  further  east, 
he  found  time  to  remember  that  every  man's  struggle 
forward  helps  along  the  advance  of  mankind  at  large, 


ioo  BRANDER  MATTHEWS. 

The  humble  fireman  who  does  his  duty  and  dies  serves 
the  cause  of  humanity. 

The  swift  twilight  of  New  York  was  almost  upon 
him  when  he  was  next  distracted  from  his  thoughts  by 
the  crossing  shouts  of  loud-voiced  men  bawling  forth  5 
a  catch-penny  extra  of  a  third-rate  evening  paper. 
The  cries  arose  from  both  sides  of  the  street  at  once, 
and  they  ceased  while  the  fellows  sold  a  paper  here  and 
there  to  the  householders  whose  curiosity  called  them 
to  the  doorstep.  10 

The  sky  was  clear,  and  a  single  star  shone  out 
sharply.  The  air  was  fresh,  and  yet  balmy.  The 
clanging  of  rails  had  ceased  an  hour  before,  and  the 
gang  of  men  who  were  spiking  the  iron  into  place 
had  dispersed  each  to  his  own  home.  The  day  was  15 
drawing  to  an  end.  Again  there  was  an  odour  of 
cooking  diffused  through  the  house,  heralding  the 
dinner  hour. 

But  the  young  man  who  lay  back  in  the  steamer 
chair  in  the  hall  bedroom  of  the  boarding-house  was  20 
unconscious  of  all  except  his  own  thoughts.  Before 
him  was  a  picture  of  a  train  of  cars  speeding  along 
moonlit  valleys,  and  casting  a  hurrying  shadow.  In 
this  train,  as  he  saw  it,  was  the  bride  of  that  after- 
noon, borne  away  by  the  side  of  her  husband.  But  it  25 
was  the  bride  he  saw,  and  not  the  husband.  He  saw 
her  pale  face  and  her  luminous  eyes  and  her  ashen- 
gold  hair ;  and  he  wondered  whether  in  the  years  to 
come  she  would  be  as  happy  as  if  she  had  keot  her 
promise  to  marry  him.  30 


XIII. 

Scenes  from  ^Western  %ite* 
HAMLIN  GARLAND. 

From  Main  Travelled  Roads.1  These  brief  extracts  are 
essentially  of  the  same  character,  but  lose,  of  course,  much  of 
their  flavour  by  being  detached. 

I.    SUNRISE. 

IN  the  windless  September  dawn  a  voice  went  sing- 
ing, a  man's  voice,  singing  a  cheap  and  common  air. 
Yet  something  in  the  Man  of  it  all  told  he  was  young, 
jubilant,  and  a  happy  lover. 

5  Above  the  level  belt  of  timber  to  the  east  a  vast 
dome  of  pale  undazzling  gold  was  rising,  silently  and 
swiftly.  Jays  called  in  the  thickets  where  the  maples 
flamed  amid  the  green  oaks,  with  irregular  splashes  of 
red  and  orange.  The  grass  was  crisp  with  frost  under 

:c  the  feet,  the  road  smooth  and  gray-white  in  colour,  the 
air  was  indescribably  sweet,  resonant,  and  stimulating. 
No  wonder  the  man  sang. 

He  came  into  view  around  the  curve  in  the  lane. 
He  had  a  fork  on  his  shoulder,  a  graceful  and  polished 

15  tool.  His  straw  hat  was  tilted  on  the  back  of  his 
head,  his  rough,  faded  coat  buttoned  close  to  the  chin, 
and  he  wore  thin  buckskin  gloves  on  his  hands.  He 

1  The  Arena  Publishing  Company,  Boston. 


102  HAM  LIN  GARLAND. 

looked  muscular  and  intelligent,  and  was  evidently 
about  twenty-two  or  three  years  of  age. 

As  he  walked  on,  and  the  sunrise  came  nearer  to 
him,  he  stopped  his  song.  The  broadening  heavens 
had  a  majesty  and  sweetness  that  made  him  forget  the  5 
physical  joy  of  happy  youth.  He  grew  almost  sad 
with  the  great  vague  thoughts  and  emotions  which 
rolled  in  his  brain  as  the  wonder  of  the  morning  grew. 

He  walked  more  slowly,  mechanically  following  the 
road,  his  eyes  on  the  ever- shifting  streaming  banners  10 
of   rose   and   pale   green,  which   made   the   east  too 
glorious  for  any  words  to  tell.     The  air  was  so  still  it 
seemed  to  await  expectantly  the  coming  of  the  sun. 

Then  his  mind  flew  back  to  Agnes.     Would  she  see 
it  ?     She  was  at  work,  getting  breakfast,  but  he  hoped  15 
she  had  time  to  see  it.     He  was  in  that  mood  so  com- 
mon to  him  now,  when  he  could  not  fully  enjoy  any 
sight  or  sound  unless  he  could  share  it  with  her.     Far 
down  the  road  he  heard  the  sharp  clatter  of  a  wagon. 
The  roosters  were  calling  near  and  far,  in  many  keys  20 
and    tunes.      The    dogs    were     barking,    cattle-bells 
jangling  in  the  wooded  pastures,   and  as   the   youth 
passed   farmhouses,    lights    in    the    kitchen    windows 
showed  that  the  women  were  astir  about  breakfast,  and 
the  sound  of  voices  and  currycombs  at  the  barn  told  25 
that  the  men  were  at  their  daily  chores. 

And  the  east  bloomed  broader.  The  dome  of  gold 
grew  brighter,  the  faint  clouds  here  and  there  flamed 
with  a  flush  of  red.  The  frost  began  to  glisten  with  a 
reflected  colour.  The  youth  dreamed  as  he  walked  ;  30 
his  broad  face  and  deep  earnest  eyes  caught  and 
reflected  some  of  the  beauty  and  majesty  of  the  sky. 


SCENES  FROM    WESTERN   LIFE.  103 

II.    THRESHING. 

Boo-oo-  oo-oom,  boo-woo-woo-oom-oom-ow-owmv 
yarr-yarr  !  The  whirling  cylinder  boomed,  roared 
and  snarled  as  it  rose  in  speed.  At  last,  when  its  tone 
became  a  rattling  yell,  David  nodded  to  the  pitchers, 
5  rasped  his  hands  together,  the  sheaves  began  to  fall 
from  the  stack,  the  band-cutter,  knife  in  hand,  slashed 
the  bands  in  twain,  and  the  feeder,  with  easy  majestic 
motion,  gathered  them  under  his  arm,  rolled  them  out 
into  an  even  belt  of  entering  wheat,  on  which  the 

10  cylinder  tore  with  its  frightful,  ferocious  snarl. 

Will  was  very  happy  in  his  quiet  way.  He  enjoyed 
the  smooth  roll  of  his  great  muscles,  the  sense  of 
power  he  felt  in  his  hands  as  he  lifted,  turned,  and 
swung  the  heavy  sheaves  two  by  two  down  upon  the 

15  table,  where  the  band-cutter  madly  slashed  away. 
His  frame,  sturdy  rather  than  tall,  was  nevertheless 
lithe,  and  he  made  a  fine  figure  to  look  at,  so  Agnes 
thought,  as  she  came  out  a  moment  and  bowed  and 
smiled  to  both  the  young  men. 

20  This  scene,  one  of  the  jolliest  and  most  sociable  of 
the  Western  farm,  had  a  charm  quite  aside  from  human 
companionship.  The  beautiful  yellow  straw  entering 
the  cylinder  ;  the  clear  yellow-brown  wheat  pulsing 
out  at  the  side  ;  the  broken  straw,  chaff,  and  dust  puf- 

25  fing  out  on  the  great  stacker  ;  the  cheery  whistling 
and  calling  of  the  driver  ;  the  keen,  crisp  air,  and  the 
bright  sun  somehow  weirdly  suggestive  of  the  passage 
of  time. 


104  HAMLIN  GARLAND. 

III.    HILL-COUNTRY. 

The  ride  from  Milwaukee  to  the  Mississippi  is  a 
fine  ride  at  any  time,  superb  in  summer.  To  lean 
back  in  a  reclining-chair  and  whirl  away  in  a  breezy 
July  day,  past  lakes,  groves  of  oak,  past  fields  of 
barley  being  reaped,  past  hay-fields,  where  the  heavy  5 
grass  is  toppling  before  the  swift  sickle,  is  a  panorama 
of  delight,  a  road  full  of  delicious  surprises,  where 
down  a  sudden  vista  lakes  open,  or  a  distant  wooded 
hill  looms  darkly  blue,  or  swift  streams,  foaming  deep 
down  the  solid  rock,  send  whiffs  of  cool  breezes  in  at  10 
the  window. 

It  has  majesty,  breadth.  The  farming  has  nothing 
apparently  petty  about  it.  All  seems  vigorous,  youth- 
ful, and  prosperous.  Mr.  Howard  McLane  in  his 
chair  let  his  newspaper  fall  on  his  lap,  and  gazed  out  15 
upon  it  with  dreaming  eyes.  It  had  a  certain  mysteri- 
ous glamour  to  him  ;  the  lakes  were  cooler  and 
brighter  to  his  eye,  the  greens  fresher,  and  the  grain 
more  golden  than  to  anyone  else,  for  he  was  coming 
back  to  it  all  after  an  absence  of  ten  years.  It  was,  20 
besides,  his  West.  He  still  took  pride  in  being  a 
Western  man. 

His  mind  all  day  flew  ahead  of  the  train  to  the  little 
town  far  on  toward  the  Mississippi,  where  he  had 
spent  his  boyhood  and  youth.  As  the  train  passed  25 
the  Wisconsin  River,  with  its  curiously  carved  cliffs, 
its  cold,  dark,  swift-swirling  water  eating  slowly  under 
cedar-clothed  banks,  Howard  began  to  feel  curious 
little  movements  of  the  heart,  like  a  lover  as  he  nears 
his  sweetheart.  0 


SCENES  FROM    WESTERN  LIFE.  105 

The  hills  changed  in  character,  growing  more  inti- 
mately recognizable.  They  rose  higher  as  the  train 
left  the  ridge  and  passed  down  into  the  Black  River 
valley,  and  specifically  into  the  La  Crosse  valley. 
5  They  ceased  to  have  any  hint  of  upheavals  of  rock, 
and  became  simply  parts  of  the  ancient  level  left 
standing  after  the  water  had  practically  given  up  its 
post-glacial,  scooping  action. 

It  was  about  six  o'clock  as  he  caught  sight  of  the 

10  dear  broken  line  of  hills  on  which  his  baby  eyes  had 
looked  thirty-five  years  ago.  A  few  minutes  later  and 
the  train  drew  up  at  the  grimy  little  station  set  in  at 
the  hillside,  and,  giving  him  just  time  to  leap  off, 
plunged  on  again  toward  the  West.  Howard  felt  a 

15  ridiculous  weakness  in  his  legs  as  he  stepped  out 
upon  the  broiling  hot  splintery  planks  of  the  station 
and  faced  the  few  idlers  lounging  about.  He  simply 
stood  and  gazed  with  the  same  intensity  and  absorp- 
tion one  of  the  idlers  might  show  standing  before  the 

20  Brooklyn  Bridge. 

The  town  caught  and  held  his  eyes  first.  How 
poor,  and  dull,  and  sleepy,  and  squalid  it  seemed  ! 
The  one  main  street  ended  at  the  hillside  at  his  left, 
and  stretched  away  to  the  north,  between  two  rows  of 

25  the  usual   village    stores,   unrelieved   by  a  tree  or  a 
touch  of  beauty.     An  unpaved  street,  drab-coloured, 
miserable,  rotting  wooden    buildings,  with  the  inevi- 
table battlements — the  same,  only  worse,  was  the  town. 
The  same,  only  more  beautiful  still,  was  the  majes- 

30  tic  amphitheatre  of  green  wooded  hills  that  circled  the 
horizon,  and  toward  which  he  lifted  his  eyes.  He 
thrilled  at  the  sight. 


106  HAMLIN  GARLAND. 

"  Glorious  !  "  he  cried  involuntarily. 

Accustomed  to  the  White  Mountains,  to  the  Alle- 
ghanies,  he  had  wondered  if  these  hills  would  retain 
their  old-time  charm.  They  did.  He  took  off  his 
hat  to  them  as  he  stood  there.  Richly  wooded,  with  R 
gently-sloping  green  sides,  rising  to  massive  square  or 
rounded  tops  with  dim  vistas,  they  glowed  down  upon 
the  squalid  town,  gracious,  lofty  in  their  greeting, 
immortal  in  their  vivid  and  delicate  beauty. 

Over  the  western  wall  of  the  circling  amphitheatre  ic 
the  sun  was  setting.     A  few  scattering  clouds  were 
drifting  on  the  west  wind,  their  shadows  sliding  down 
the  green  and  purple   slopes.     The  dazzling  sunlight 
flamed   along   the   luscious   velvety   grass,    and    shot 
amid  the  rounded,  distant  purple  peaks,  and  streamed  i* 
in  bars  of  gold  and  crimson  across  the  blue  mist  of 
the  narrower  upper  coules. 

The  heart  of  the  young  man  swelled  with  pleasure 
almost  like  pain,  and  the  eyes  of  the  silent  older  man 
took  on  a  far-off,  dreaming  look,  as  he  gazed  at  the  2c 
scene  which  had  repeated  itself  a  thousand  times  in 
his  life,  but  of  whose  beauty  he  never  spoke. 

Far  down  to  the  left  was  the  break  in  the  wall, 
through  which  the  river  ran,  on  its  way  to  join  the 
Mississippi.     As  they  climbed  slowly  among  the  hills,  25 
the  valley  they  had  left  grew  still  more  beautiful,  as 
the  squalor  of  the  little  town  was  hid  by  the  dusk  of 
distance.     Both   men    were   silent   for   a   long  time. 
Howard  knew  the  peculiarities  of  his  companion  too 
well  to  make  any  remarks  or  ask  any  questions,  and  30 
besides  it  was  a  genuine  pleasure  to  ride  with  one  who 


SCENES  FROM   WESTERN-  LIFE.  107 

could  feel  that  silence  was  the  only  speech  amid  such 
splendours. 

Once  they  passed  a  little  brook  singing  in  a  mourn- 
fully sweet  way  its  eternal  song  over  its  pebbles.  It 
5  called  back  to  Howard  the  days  when  he  and  Grant, 
his  younger  brother,  had  fished  in  this  little  brook  for 
trout,  with  trousers  rolled  above  the  knee  and  wrecks 
of  hats  upon  their  heads. 


IV.    RAIN    ON    THE    FARM. 

The  rain  was  still  falling,  sweeping  down  from  the 

10  half-seen  hills,  wreathing  the  wooded  peaks  with  a 
gray  garment  of  mist,  and  filling  the  valley  with  a 
whitish  cloud. 

It  fell  around  the  house  drearily.     It  ran  down  into 
the  tubs  placed  to  catch   it,  dripped  from  the  mossy 

15  pump,  and  drummed  on  the  upturned  milk-pails,  and 
upon  the  brown  and  yellow  bee-hives  under  the  maple- 
trees.  The  chickens  seemed  depressed,  but  the  irre- 
pressible bluejay  screamed  amid  it  all,  with  the  same 
insolent  spirit,  his  plumage  untarnished  by  the  wet. 

20  The  barnyard  showed  a  horrible  mixture  of  mud  and 

mire,  through  which  Howard  caught   glimpses  of  the 

men,  slumping  to  and  fro   without    more   additional 

protection  than  a  ragged  coat  and  a  shapeless  felt  hat. 

In   the  sitting-room  where  his   mother  sat  sewing 

25  there  was  not  an  ornament,  save  the  etching  he  had 
brought.  The  clock  stood  on  a  small  shelf,  its  dial  so 
much  defaced  that  one  could  not  tell  the  time  of  day  ; 
and  when  it  struck,  it  was  with  noticeably  dispropor- 
tionate deliberation,  as  if  it  wished  to  correct  any  mis- 


lo8  HAMLIN  GARLAND. 

take  into  which  the  family  might  have  fallen  by  reason 
of  its  illegible  dial. 

The  paper  on  the  walls  showed  the  first  concession 
of  the  Puritans  to  the  Spirit  of  Beauty,  and  was  made 
up  of  a  heterogeneous  mixture  of  flowers  of  unheard-   5 
of  shapes  and  colours,  arranged  in  four  different  ways 
along  the  wall.     There  were  no  books,  no  music,  and 
only  a  few  newspapers  in   sight — a  bare,  blank,  cold, 
drab-coloured    shelter  from    the    rain,  not    a  home. 
Nothing  cosey,  nothing   heart-warming  ;  a  grim   and  10 
horrible  shed. 


V.    A   DAKOTA    PRAIRIE. 

Leaving  Rob  to  sputter  over  his  cooking,  Seagraves 
took  his  slow  way  off  down  toward  the  oxen  grazing 
in  a  little  hollow.  The  scene  was  characteristically, 
wonderfully  beautiful.  It  was  about  five  o'clock  in  a  15 
day  in  late  June,  and  the  level  plain  was  green  and 
yellow,  and  infinite  in  reach  as  a  sea  ;  the  lowering 
sun  was  casting  over  its  distant  swells  a  faint  impal- 
pable mist,  through  which  the  breaking  teams  on  the 
neighbouring  claims  ploughed  noiselessly,  as  figures  in  20 
a  dream.  The  whistle  of  gophers,  the  faint,  wailing, 
fluttering  cry  of  the  falling  plover,  the  whir  of  the 
swift-winged  prairie-pigeon,  or  the  quack  of  a  lonely 
duck,  came  through  the  shimmering  air.  The  lark's 
infrequent  whistle,  piercingly  sweet,  broke  from  the  25 
longer  grass  in  the  swales  near  by.  No  other  climate, 
sky,  plain,  could  produce  the  same  unnamable  weird 
charm.  No  tree  to  wave,  no  grass  to  rustle  ;  scarcely 
a  sound  of  domestic  life  ;  only  the  faint  melancholy 


SCENES  FROM    WESTERN  LIFE.  109 

soughing  of  the  wind  in  the  short  grass,  and  the  voices 
of  the  wild  things  of  the  prairie. 

Seagraves,  an  impressionable  young  man  (junior 
editor  of  the  Boomtown  Spike\  threw  himself  down  on 
5  the  sod,  pulled  his  hat-rim  down  over  his  eyes,  and 
looked  away  over  the  plain.  It  was  the  second  yeai 
of  Boomtown's  existence,  and  Seagraves  had  not  yet 
grown  restless  under  its  monotony.  Around  him  the 
gophers  played  saucily.  Teams  were  moving  here  and 

10  there  across  the  sod,  with  a  peculiar  noiseless,  effort^ 
less  motion,  that  made  them  seem  as  calm,  lazy,  and 
unsubstantial  as  the  mist  through  which  they  made 
their  way  ;  even  the  sound  of  passing  wagons  was  a 
sort  of  low,  well-fed,  self-satisfied  chuckle. 

15  Seagraves,  "  holding  down  a  claim  "  near  Rob,  had 
come  to  see  his  neighbouring  "  bach  "  because  feeling 
the  need  of  company  ;  but  now  that  he  was  near 
enough  to  hear  him  prancing  about  getting  supper, 
he  was  content  to  lie  alone  on  a  slope  of  the  green 

20  sod. 

The  silence  of  the  prairie  at  night  was  well-nigh 
terrible.  Many  a  night,  as  Seagraves  lay  in  his  bunk 
against  the  side  of  his  cabin,  he  would  strain  his  ear 
to  hear  the  slightest  sound,  and  be  listening  thus  some- 

25  times  for  minutes  before  the  squeak  of  a  mouse  or  the 
step  of  a  passing  fox  came  as  a  relief  to  the  aching 
sense.  In  the  daytime,  however,  and  especially  on  a 
morning,  the  prairie  was  another  thing.  The  pigeons, 
the  larks,  the  cranes,  the  multitudinous  voices  of  the 

30  ground-birds  and  snipes  and  insects,  made  the  air  pul- 
sate with  sound — a  chorus  that  died  away  into  an 
infinite  murmur  of  music. 


110  HAM  LIN  GARLAND. 

"  Hello,  Seagraves  !  "  yelled  Bob  from  the   door. 
"  The  biscuit  are  'most  done/' 

Seagraves  did  not  speak,  only  nodded  his  head,  and 
slowly  rose.  The  faint  clouds  in  the  west  were  getting 
a  superb  flame-colour  above  and  a  misty  purple  below,  5 
and  the  sun  had  shot  them  with  lances  of  yellow  light. 
As  the  air  grew  denser  with  moisture,  the  sounds  of 
neighbouring  life  began  to  reach  the  ear.  Children 
screamed  and  laughed,  and  afar  off  a  woman  was  sing- 
ing a  lullaby.  The  rattle  of  wagons  and  voices  of  men  10 
speaking  to  their  teams  multiplied.  Ducks  in  a  neigh- 
bouring lowland  were  quacking.  The  whole  scene 
took  hold  upon  Seagraves  with  irresistible  power. 

VI.    A    CORN-FIELD. 

A  corn-field  in  July  is  a  hot  place.     The  soil  is  hot 
and  dry  ;  the  wind  comes  across  the  lazily  murmuring  15 
leaves  laden  with  a  warm  sickening  smell  drawn  from 
the  rapidly-growing,  broad-flung  banners  of  the  corn. 
The  sun,  nearly  vertical,  drops  a   flood  of   dazzling 
light  and  heat  upon  the  field  over   which   the  cool 
shadows  run,  only  to  make  the  heat  seem  the  more  20 
intense. 

Julia  Peterson,  faint  with  fatigue,  was  toiling  back 
and  forth  between  the  corn-rows,  holding  the  handles 
of  the  double-shovel  corn-plough,  while  her  little 
brother  Otto  rode  the  steaming  horse.  Her  heart  25 
was  full  of  bitterness,  and  her  face  flushed  with  heat, 
and  her  muscles  aching  with  fatigue.  The  heat  grew 
terrible.  The  corn  came  to  her  shoulders,  and  not  a 
breath  seemed  to  reach  her,  while  the  sun,  nearing  the 


SCENES  FROM    WESTERN  LIFE  in 

noon  mark,  lay  pitilessly  upon  her  shoulders,  protected 
only  by  a  calico  dress.  The  dust  rose  under  her  feet, and 
as  she  was  wet  with  perspiration  it  soiled  her  till,  with 
a  woman's  instinctive  cleanliness,  she  shuddered.  Her 
5  head  throbbed  dangerously.  What  matter  to  her  that 
the  kingbird  pitched  jovially  from  the  maples  to  catch 
a  wandering  blue-bottle  fly,  that  the  robin  was  feeding 
its  young,  that  the  bobolink  was  singing  ?  All  these 
things,  if  she  saw  them,  only  threw  her  bondage  to 

10  labour  into  greater  relief. 

Across  the  field,  in  another  patch  of  corn,  she  could 
see  her  father — a  big,  gruff-voiced,  wide-bearded  Nor- 
wegian— at  work  also  with  a  plough.  The  corn  must 
be  ploughed,  and  so  she  toiled  on,  the  tears  dropping 

15  from  the  shadow  of  the  ugly  sun-bonnet  she  wore. 
Her  shoes,  coarse  and  square-toed,  chafed  her  feet ; 
her  hands,  large  and  strong,  were  browned,  or  more 
properly  burnt,  on  the  backs  by  the  sun.  The  horse's 
harness  "<rra^-c  racked,"  as  he  swung  steadily  and 

20  patiently  forward,  the  moisture  pouring  from  his  sides, 
his  nostrils  distended. 

The  field  ran  down  to  a  road,  and  on  the  other 
side  of  the  road  ran  a  river — a  broad,  clear,  shallow 
expanse  at  that  point,  and  the  eyes  of  the  boy  gazed 

25  longingly  at  the  pond  and  the  cool  shadow  each  time 
that  he  turned  at  the  fence. 

"  Say,  Jule,  I'm  goin'  in  !  Come,  can't  I  ?  Come — 
say  !  "  he  pleaded,  as  they  stopped  at  the  fence  to  let 
the  horse  breathe. 

30     "  I've  let  you  go  wade  twice." 

"  But  that  don't  do  any  good.  My  legs  is  all  smarty, 
'cause  ol' Jack  sweats  so."  The  boy  turned  around 


112  HAM  LIN  GARLAND. 

on  the  horse's  back  and  slid  back  to  his  rump.  "  I 
can't  stand  it  ! "  he  burst  out,  sliding  off  and  darting 
under  the  fence.  "  Father  can't  see/' 

The  girl  put  her  elbows  on  the  fence,  and  watched 
her  little  brother  as  he  sped  away  to  the  pool,  throwing   5 
off  his  clothes  as  he  ran,  whooping  with  uncontrollable 
delight.     Soon  she  could  hear  him  splashing  about  in 
the  water  a  short  distance  up  the  stream,  and  caught 
glimpses  of  his  little  shiny  body  and  happy  face.     How 
cool  that  water  looked!     And  the  shadows  there  by  10 
the  big  basswood  !     How  that  water  would  cool  her 
blistered   feet !      An   impulse    seized    her,    and    she 
squeezed  between  the  rails  of  the  fence,  and  stood  in 
the  road  looking  up  and  down  to  see  that  the  way  was 
clear.     It  was  not  a  main-travelled  road  ;  no  one  was  15 
likely  to  come  ;  why  not  ? 

She  hurriedly  took  off  her  shoes  and  stockings — 
how  delicious  the  cool,  soft  velvet  of  the  grass  ! — and 
sitting  down  on  the  bank  under  the  great  basswood, 
whose  roots  formed  an  abrupt  bank,  she  slid  her  poor  20 
blistered,  chafed  feet  into  the  water,  her  bare  head 
leaned  against  the  huge  tree-trunk. 

And  now  as  she  rested,  the  beauty  of  the  scene 
came  to  her.     Over  her  the  wind  moved  the  leaves. 
A  jay  screamed  far  off,  as  if  answering  the  cries  of  the  25 
boy.     A  kingfisher  crossed  and  re-crossed  the  stream 
with  a  dipping  sweep  of  his  wings.     The  river  sang 
with  its  lips  to  the  pebbles.     The  vast  clouds  went  by 
majestically,  far  above  the  tree-tops,  and  the  snap  and 
buzzing  and  ringing  whir  of  July  insects  made  a  cease-  30 
less,  slumberous  undertone  of  song  solvent  of  all  else. 
The  tired  girl  forgot  her  work.     She  began  to  dream 


SCENES  FROM    WESTERN  LIFE.  Ilj 

VII.    PLOUGHING. 

It  was  the  last  of  autumn  and  first  day  of  winter 
coming  together.  All  day  long  the  ploughmen  oil 
their  prairie  farms  had  moved  to  and  fro  on  the  wide 
level  field  through  the  falling  snow,  which  melted  as 

5  it  fell,  wetting  them  to  the  skin — all  day,  notwithstand- 
ing the  frequent  squalls  of  snow,  the  dripping,  deso- 
late clouds,  and  the  muck  of  the  furrows,  black  and 
tenacious  as  tar. 

Under  their  dripping  harness  the  horses  swung  to 

10  and  fro  silently,  with  that  marvellous  uncomplaining 
patience  which  marks  the  horse.  All  day  the  wild 
geese,  honking  wildly,  as  they  sprawled  sidewise  down 
the  wind,  seemed  to  be  fleeing  from  an  enemy  behind, 
and  with  neck  outthrust  and  wings  extended,  sailed 

15  down  the  wind,  soon  lost  to  sight. 

Yet  the  ploughman  behind  his  plough,  though  the 
snow  lay  on  his  ragged  great-coat,  and  the  cold  clinging 
mud  rose  on  his  heavy  boots,  fettering  him  like  gyves, 
whistled  in  the  very  beard  of  the  gale.  .As  day  passed, 

20  the  snow,  ceasing  to  melt,  lay  along  the  ploughed  land 

and  lodged  in  the  depth  of  the  stubble,  till  on  each 

slow  round  the  last  furrow  stood  out  black  and  shining 

as  jet  between  the  ploughed  land  and  the  gray  stubble. 

When  night  began  to  fall,  and  the  geese,  flying  low, 

25  began  to  alight  invisibly  in  the  near  corn-field,  Stephen 
Council  was  still  at  work  "  finishing  a  land,"  He  rode 
on  his  sulky-plough  when  going  with  the  wind,  but 
walked  when  facing  it.  Sitting  bent  and  cold  but 
cheery  under  his  slouch  hat,  he  talked  encouragingly 

50  to  his 


XIV. 

Soutb^Sca  1bou0e. 
CHARLES   LAMB. 

From  The  Essays  of  Elia.  This  series  of  portraits  is  chosen  as 
typical  of  that  deliberate  description,  delighting  in  details  without 
forgetting  the  look  of  the  whole,  which  is  most  familiar  in  this 
country  in  the  works  of  Irving  and  Hawthorne.  Compare 
especially  Irving's  Rip  Van  Winkle  in  The  Sketch  Book,  and 
Hawthorne's  customs-house  officers  in  the  introduction  to  The 
Scarlet  Letter. 

Here  also  should  be  introduced  character  sketches  from  the 
famous  novelists  and  historians,  especially  from  Dickens  and 
Carlyle.1 

READER,  in  thy  passage  from  the  Bank — where 
thou  hast  been  receiving  thy  half-yearly  dividends  (sup- 
posing thou  art  a  lean  annuitant  like  myself) — to  the 
Flower  Pot,  to  secure  a  place  for  Dalston,  or  Shackle- 
well,  or  some  other  suburban  retreat  northerly, — didst  5 
thou  never  observe  a  melancholy  looking,  handsome, 
brick  and  stone  edifice,  to  the  left — where  Thread- 
needle  Street  abuts  upon  Bishopsgate  ?  I  dare  say 
thou  hast  often  admired  its  magnificent  portals  ever 
gaping  wide,  and  disclosing  to  view  a  grave  court,  10 
with  cloisters,  and  pillars,  with  few  or  no  traces  of 

1  For  example,  the  famous  description  of  Coleridge  in  the  eighth 
chapter  of  The  Life  of  John  Sterling. 


THE  SOUTH-SEA   HOUSE.  115 

goers-in  or  comers-out — a  desolation    something  like 
Balclutha's.2 

This  was  once  a  house  of  trade, — a  centre  of  busy 
Interests.     The  throng  of   merchants  was    here — the 

^  quick  pulse  of  gain — and  here  some  forms  of  business 
are  still  kept  up,  though  the  soul  be  long  since  fled. 
Here  are  still  to  be  seen  stately  porticos  ;  imposing 
staircases,  offices  roomy  as  the  state  apartments  in 
palaces — deserted,  or  thinly  peopled  with  a  few  strag- 

10  gling  clerks  ;    the  still  more  sacred  interiors  of  court 

•  and  committee-rooms,  with  venerable  faces  of  beadles, 
door-keepers — directors  seated  in  form  on  solemn  days 
(to  proclaim  a  dead  dividend),  at  long  worm-eaten 
tables  that  have  been  mahogany,  with  tarnished  gilt- 

15  leather  coverings,  supporting  massy  silver  inkstands 
long  since  dry  ;  the  oaken  wainscots  hung  with  pic- 
tures of  deceased  governors  and  sub-governors,  of 
Queen  Anne,  and  the  two  first  monarchs  of  the 
Brunswick  dynasty  ;  huge  charts,  which  subsequent 

20  discoveries  have  antiquated  ;  dusty  maps  of  Mexico, 
dim  as  dreams, — and  soundings  of  the  Bay  of  Panama  ! 
The  long  passages  hung  with  buckets,  appended,  in 
idle  row,  to  walls,  whose  substance  might  defy  any, 
short  of  the  last,  conflagration  ;  with  vast  ranges  of 

25  cellarage  under  all,  where  dollars  and  pieces-of-eight 
once  lay,  an  "unsunned  heap,"  for  Mammon  to  have 
solaced  his  solitary  heart  withal — long  since  dissipated, 
or  scattered  into  air  at  the  blast  of  the  breaking  of  that 
famous  BUBBLE. 

30     Such  is  the  SOUTH-SEA  HOUSE.     At  least,  such  it 

*  "  I  passed  by  the  walls  of  Balclutha.  and  they  were  desolate/' 

— OSSIAN. 


Il6  CHARLES  LAMB. 

was  forty  years  ago,  when  I  knew  it, — a  magnificent 
relic  !  What  alterations  may  have  been  made  in  it 
since,  I  have  had  no  opportunities  of  verifying.  Time, 
I  take  for  granted,  has  not  freshened  it.  No  wind  has 
resuscitated  the  face  of  the  sleeping  waters.  A  thicker  5 
crust  by  this  time  stagnates  upon  it.  The  moths,  that 
were  then  battening  upon  its  obsolete  ledgers  and  day- 
books, have  rested  from  their  depredations,  but  other 
light  generations  have  succeeded,  making  fine  fret- 
work among  their  single  and  double  entries.  Layers  10 
of  dust  have  accumulated  (a  superfcetation  of  dirt  !) 
upon  the  old  layers  that  seldom  used  to  be  disturbed, 
save  by  some  curious  finger,  now  and  then,  inquisitive 
to  explore  the  mode  of  book-keeping  in  Queen  Anne's 
reign;  or,  with  less  hallowed  curiosity,  seeking  to  15 
unveil  some  of  the  mysteries  of  that  tremendous  HOAX, 
whose  extent  the  petty  peculators  of  our  day  look 
back  upon  with  the  same  expression  of  incredulous 
admiration,  and  hopeless  ambition  of  rivalry,  as  would 
become  the  puny  face  of  modern  conspiracy  contem-  20 
plating  the  Titan  size  of  Vaux's  superhuman  plot. 

Peace  to  the  manes  of  the  BUBBLE  !  Silence  and 
destitution  are  upon  thy  walls,  proud  house,  for  a 
memorial ! 

Situated  as  thou  art,  in  the  very  heart  of  stirring  25 
and  living  commerce, — amid  the  fret  and  fever  of 
speculation, — with  the  Bank,  and  the  'Change,  and  the 
India-house  about  thee,  in  the  hey-day  of  present 
prosperity,  with  their  important   faces,  as  it  were, 
insulting  thee,  their  poor  neighbour  out  of  business — to  30 
the  idle  and  merely  contemplative,  to  such  as  me,  old 
house  !  there  is  a  charm  in  thy  quiet  :  a  cessation — 


THE   SOUTH-SEA   HOUSE.  ll^ 

a  coolness  from  business— an  indolence  almost  clois- 
tral— which  is  delightful  !  With  what  reverence  have 
I  paced  thy  great  bare  rooms  and  courts  at  eventide  ! 
They  spoke  of  the  past : — the  shade  of  some  dead 
5  accountant,  with  visionary  pen  in  ear,  would  flit  by  me, 
stiff  as  in  life.  Living  accounts  and  accountants  puz- 
zle me.  I  have  no  skill  in  figuring.  But  thy  great 
dead  tomes,  which  scarce  three  degenerate  clerks  of  the 
present  day  could  lift  from  their  enshrining  shelves — 

*o  with  their  old  fantastic  flourishes,  and  decorative 
rubric  interlacings — their  sums  in  triple  columniations, 
set  down  with  formal  superfluity  of  ciphers — with 
pious  sentences  at  the  beginning,  without  which  our 
religious  ancestors  never  ventured  to  open  a  book  of 

15  business,  or  bill  of  lading — the  costly  vellum  covers 
of  some  of  them  almost  persuading  us  that  we  are 
got  into  some  better  library, — are  very  agreeable  and 
edifying  spectacles.  I  can  look  upon  these  defunct 
dragons  with  complacency.  Thy  heavy  odd- shaped 

20  ivory-handled  pen-knives  (our  ancestors  had  every- 
thing on  a  larger  scale  than  we  have  hearts  for)  are  as 
good  as  anything  from  Herculaneum.  The  pounce- 
boxes  of  our  days  have  gone  retrograde. 

The  very  clerks  which  I  remember  in  the  South-Sea 

25  House — I  speak  of  forty  years  back — had  an  air  very 
different  from  those  in  the  public  offices  that  I  have 
had  to  do  with  since.  They  partook  of  the  genius  of 
the  place  ! 

They  were  mostly  (for  the  establishment  did  not 

30  admit  of  superfluous  salaries)  bachelors.  Generally 
(for  they  had  not  much  to  do)  persons  of  a  curious 
and  speculative  turn  of  mind.  Old- fashioned,  for  a 


Ii8  CHARLES  LAMB. 

reason  mentioned  before.  Humourists,  for  they  were 
of  all  descriptions ;  and,  not  having  been  brought 
together  in  early  life  (which  has  a  tendency  to  assimi- 
late the  members  of  corporate  bodies  to  each  other), 
but,  for  the  most  part,  placed  in  this  house  in  ripe  or  5 
middle  age,  they  necessarily  carried  into  it  their  separ- 
ate habits  and  oddities,  unqualified,  if  I  may  so  speak, 
as  into  a  common  stock.  Hence  they  formed  a  sort 
of  Noah's  ark.  Odd  fishes.  A  lay  monastery. 
Domestic  retainers 'in  a  great  house,  kept  more  forio 
show  than  use.  Yet  pleasant  fellows,  full  of  chat — 
and  not  a  few  among  them  had  arrived  at  considerable 
proficiency  on  the  German  flute. 

The  cashier  at  that  time  was  one  Evans,  a  Cambro- 
Briton.     He  had  something  of  the  choleric  complexion  15 
of  his  countrymen  stamped  on  his  visage,  but  was  a 
worthy  sensible  man  at  bottom.     He  wore  his  hair,  to 
the  last,  powdered  and   frizzed  out,   in  the  fashion 
which  I  remember  to  have  seen  in  caricatures  of  what 
were  termed,  in  my  young  days,  Maccaronies.     He  was  20 
the  last  of  that  race  of  beaux.     Melancholy  as  a  gib- 
cat  over  his  counter  all  the  forenoon,  I  think   I  see 
him,  making  up  his  cash  (as  they  call  it)  with  tremul- 
ous fingers,  as  if  he  feared  everyone  about  him  was  a 
defaulter  ;  in  his  hypochondry  ready  to  imagine  him-  25 
self  one  ;  haunted,  at  least,  with  the  idea  of  the  possi- 
bility of  his  becoming  one  ;  his  tristful  visage  clearing 
up  a  little  over  his  roast  neck  of  veal  at  Anderton's  at 
two  (where  his  picture  still  hangs,  taken  a  little  before 
his  death  by  desire  of  the  master  of  the  coffee-house,  34 
which  he  had  frequented  for  the  last  five-and-twenty 
years),  but  not  attaining  the  meridian  of  its  animation 


THE   SOUTH-SEA   HOUSE.  119 

till  evening  brought  on  the  hour  of  tea  and  visiting. 
The  simultaneous  sound  of  his  well-known  rap  at  the 
door  with  the  stroke  of  the  clock  announcing  six,  was 
a  topic  of  never-failing  mirth  in  the  families  which 
5  this  dear  old  bachelor  gladdened  with  his  presence. 
Then  was  his  forte,  his  glorified  hour  !  How  would 
he  chirp,  and  expand,  over  a  muffin  !  How  would  he 
dilate  into  secret  history.  His  countryman,  Pennant 
himself,  in  particular,  could  not  be  more  eloquent  than 

10  he  in  relation  to  old  and  new  London  ;  the  site  of  old 
theatres,  churches,  streets  gone  to  decay  ;  where  Rosa- 
mond's Pond  stood  ;  the  Mulberry  gardens  ;  and  the 
Conduit  in  Cheap — with  many  a  pleasant  anecdote, 
derived  from  paternal  tradition,  of  those  grotesque 

15  figures  which  Hogarth  has  immortalized  in  his  picture 
of  Noon — the  worthy  descendants  of  those  heroic  con- 
fessors, who,  flying  to  this  country,  from  the  wrath  of 
Louis  the  Fourteenth  and  his  dragoons,  kept  alive  the 
flame  of  pure  religion  in  the  sheltering  obscurities  of 

20  Hog-lane,  and  the  vicinity  of  the  Seven  Dials  ! 

Deputy,  under  Evans,  was  Thomas  Tame.  He  had 
the  air  and  stoop  of  a  nobleman.  You  would  have 
taken  him  for  one,  had  you  met  him  in  one  of  the 
passages  leading  to  Westminister-hall.  By  stoop,  I 

25  mean  that  gentle  bending  of  the  body  forwards,  which, 
in  great  men,  must  be  supposed  to  be  the  effect  of  an 
habitual  condescending  attention  to  the  applications 
of  their  inferiors.  While  he  held  you  in  converse,  you 
felt  strained  to  the  height  in  the  colloquy.  The  con- 

30  ference  over,  you  were  at  leisure  to  smile  at  the  com- 
parative insignificance  of  the  pretensions  which  had 
just  awed  you.  His  intellect  was  of  the  shallowest 


120  CHARLES  LAMB. 

order.  It  did  not  reach  to  a  saw  or  a  proverb.  His 
mind  was  in  its  original  state  of  white  paper.  A  suck- 
ing-babe might  have  posed  him.  What  was  it  then? 
Was  he  rich  ?  Alas,  no  !  Thomas  Tame  was  very 
poor.  Both  he  and  his  wife  looked  outwardly  gentle-  5 
folks,  when  I  fear  all  was  not  well  at  all  times  within. 
She  had  a  neat  meagre  person,  which  it  was  evident 
she  had  not  sinned  in  over-pampering  ;  but  in  its 
veins  was  noble  blood.  She  traced  her  descent,  by 
some  labyrinth  of  relationship,  which  I  never  thoroughly  10 
understood — much  less  can  explain  with  any  heraldic 
certainty  at  this  time  of  day — to  the  illustrious,  but 
unfortunate,  house  of  Derwentwater.  This  was  the 
secret  of  Thomas's  stoop.  This  was  the  thought, 
the  sentiment,  the  bright  solitary  star  of  your  lives, —  J5 
ye  mild  and  happy  pair, — which  cheered  you  in  the 
night  of  intellect,  and  in  the  obscurity  of  your  station  ! 
This  was  to  you  instead  of  riches,  instead  of  rank, 
instead  of  glittering  attainments  ;  and  it  was  worth 
them  all  together.  You  insulted  none  with  it;  but,  20 
while  you  wore  it  as  a  piece  of  defensive  armour  only, 
no  insult  likewise  could  reach  you  through  it.  Decus 
et  solamen. 

Of  quite  another  ?tamp  was  the  then  accountant, 
John  Tipp.     He  neither  pretended  to  high  blood,  nor,  25 
in  good  truth,  cared  one  fig  about  the  matter.     He 
"  thought  an  accountant  the  greatest  character  in  the 
world,  and  himself  the  greatest   accountant  in  it." 
Yet   John  was  not  without  his   hobby.     The  fiddle 
relieved  his  vacant  hours.     He  sang,   certainly,  with  30 
other  notes  than  to  the  Orphean  lyre.     He  did,  indeed, 
scream  and  scrape  most  abominably.     His  fine  suite 


THE  SOUTH-SEA   HOUSE.  12 1 

of  official  rooms  in  Threadneedle  Street,  which,  with- 
out anything  very  substantial  appended  to  them,  were 
enough  to  enlarge  a  man's  notions  of  himself  that 
lived  in  them  (I  know  not  who  is  the  occupier  of  them 

5  now),  resounded  fortnightly  to  the  notes  of  a  concert 
of  "sweet  breasts,"  as  our  ancestors  would  have  called 
them,  culled  from  clubrooms  and  orchestras, — chorus- 
singers,  first  and  second  violoncellos,  double  basses, 
and  clarionets, — who  ate  his  cold  mutton  and  drank 

10  his  punch,  and  praised  his  ear.  He  sate  like  Lord 
Midas  among  them.  But  at  the  desk  Tipp  was  quite 
another  sort  of  creature.  Thence  all  ideas,  that  were 
purely  ornamental,  were  banished.  You  could  not 
speak  of  anything  romantic  without  rebuke.  Politics 

15  were  excluded.  A  newspaper  was  thought  too  refined 
and  abstracted.  The  whole  duty  of  man  consisted  in 
writing  off  dividend  warrants.  The  striking  of  the 
annual  balance  in  the  company's  books  (which,  per- 
haps, differed  from  the  balance  of  last  year  in  the  sum 

20  of  ^25  is.  6d.)  occupied  his  days  and  nights  for  a 
month  previous.  Not  that  Tipp  was  blind  to  the 
deadness  of  things  (as  they  call  them  in  the  City)  in 
his  beloved  house,  or  did  not  sigh  for  a  return  of  the 
old  stirring  days  when  South-Sea  hopes  were  young — 

25  (he  was  indeed  equal  to  the  wielding  of  any  the  most 
intricate  accounts  of  the  most  flourishing  company  in 
these  or  those  days)  : — but  to  a  genuine  accountant 
the  difference  of  proceeds  is  as  nothing.  The  frac- 
tional farthing  is  as  dear  to  his  heart  as  the  thousands 

30  which  stand  before  it.  He  is  the  true  actor,  who, 
whether  his  part  be  a  prince  or  a  peasant,  must  act  it 
with  like  intensity.  With  Tipp  form  was  everything, 


122  CHARLES  LAMB. 

His  life  was  formal.  His  actions  seemed  ruled  with  a 
ruler.  His  pen  was  not  less  erring  than  his  heart. 
He  made  the  best  executor  in  the  world  ;  he  was 
plagued  with  incessant  executorships  accordingly, 
which  excited  his  spleen  and  soothed  his  vanity  in  5 
equal  ratios.  He  would  swear  (for  Tipp  swore)  at  the 
little  orphans,  whose  rights  he  would  guard  with  a 
tenacity  like  the  grasp  of  the  dying  hand,  that  com- 
mended their  interests  to  his  protection.  With  all  this 
there  was  about  him  a  sort  of  timidity — (his  few  10 
enemies  used  to  give  it  a  worse  name) — a  something 
which,  in  reference  to  the  dead,  we  will  place,  if  you 
please,  a  little  on  this  side  of  the  heroic.  Nature  cer- 
tainly had  been  pleased  to  endow  John  Tipp  with  a 
sufficient  measure  of  the  principle  of  self-preservation.  15 
There  is  a  cowardice  which  we  do  not  despise,  because 
it  has  nothing  base  or  treacherous  in  its  elements  ;  it 
betrays  itself,  not  you  :  it  is  mere  temperament  ;  the 
absence  of  the  romantic  and  the  enterprising  ;  it  sees 
a  lion  in  the  way,  and  will  not,  with  Fortinbras,  20 
"  greatly  find  quarrel  in  a  straw/'  when  some  supposed 
honour  is  at  stake.  Tipp  never  mounted  the  box  of  a 
stage-coach  in  his  life  ;  or  leaned  against  the  rails  of  a 
balcony  ;  or  walked  upon  the  ridge  of  a  parapet  ;  or 
looked  down  a  precipice  ;  or  let  off  a  gun  ;  or  went  25 
upon  a  water-party  ;  or  would  willingly  let  you  go,  if 
he  could  have  helped  it  :  neither  was  it  recorded  of 
him,  that  for  lucre,  or  for  intimidation,  he  ever  for- 
sook friend  or  principle. 

Whom  next  shall  we  summon  from  the  dusty  dead,  30 
in  whom  common  qualities  become  uncommon  ?     Can 
I  forget  thee  Henry  Man,  the  wit,  the  polished  man  of 


THE   SOUTH- SEA   HOUSE.  123 

letters,  the  author,  of  the  South-Sea  House?  who 
never  enteredst  thy  office  in  a  morning,  or  quittedst  it 
in  mid-day — (what  didst  thou  in  an  office  ?) — without 
some  quirk  that  left  a  sting  !  Thy  gibes  and  thy  jokes 
5  are  now  extinct,  or  survive  but  in  two  forgotten 
volumes,  which  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  rescue  from 
a  stall  in  Barbican,  not  three  days  ago,  and  found  thee 
terse,  fresh,  epigrammatic,  as  alive.  Thy  wit  is  a  little 
gone  by  in  these  fastidious  days — thy  topics  are  staled 

10  by  the  "  new-born  gauds  "  of  the  time  ;  but  great  thou 
used  to  be  in  Public  Ledgers,  and  in  Chronicles,  upon 
Chatham,  and  Shelburn,  and  Rockingham,  and  Howe, 
and  Burgoyne,  and  Clinton,  and  the  war  which  ended 
in  the  tearing  from  Great  Britain  her  rebellious 

15  colonies, — and  Keppel,  and  Wilkes,  and  Sawbridge, 
and  Bull,  and  Dunning,  and  Pratt,  and  Richmond, — 
and  such  small  politics. 

A  little  less  facetious,  and  a  great  deal  more  obstrep- 
erous, was   fine,  rattling,  rattle-headed    Plumer.     He 

20  was  descended, — not  in  a  right  line,  reader,  (for  his 
lineal  pretensions,  like  his  personal,  favoured  a  little  of 
the  sinister  bend),  from  the  Plumers  of  Hertfordshire. 
So  tradition  gave  him  out ;  and  certain  family  features 
not  a  little  sanctioned  the  opinion.  Certainly  old 

25  Walter  Plumer  (his  reputed  author)  had  been  a  rake 
in  his  days,  and  visited  much  in  Italy,  and  had  seen 
the  world.  He  was  uncle,  bachelor-uncle,  to  the  fine 
old  Whig  still  living,  who  has  represented  the  county 
in  so  many  successive  parliaments,  and  has  a  fine  old 

30  mansion  near  Ware.  Walter  flourished  in  George  the 
Second's  days,  and  was  the  same  who  was  summoned 
before  the  House  of  Commons  about  a  business  of 


124  CHARLES  LAMB. 

franks,  with  the  old  Duchess  of  Marlborough.  You 
may  read  of  it  in  Johnson's  Life  of  Cave.  Cave  came 
off  cleverly  in  that  business.  It  is  certain  our  Plumer 
did  nothing  to  discountenance  the  rumour.  He  rather 
seemed  pleased  whenever  it  was,  with  all  gentleness,  5 
insinuated.  But,  besides  his  family  pretensions, 
Plumer  was  an  engaging  fellow,  and  sang  gloriously. 

Not  so  sweetly  sang  Plumer  as  thou  sangest,  mild, 

childlike,   pastoral   M ;   a    flute's    breathing   less 

divinely  whispering  than  thy  Arcadian  melodies,  when,  10 
in  tones  worthy  of  Arden,  thou  didst  chant  that  song 
sung  by  Amiens  to  the  banished  Duke,  which  proclaims 
the  winter  wind  more  lenient  than  for  a  man  to  be 
ungrateful.     Thy  sire  was  old  surly  M ,  the  unap- 
proachable churchwarden  of  Bishopsgate.     He  knew  15 
not  what  he  did,   when   he  begat   thee,   like  spring, 
gentle  offspring  of  blustering   winter — only  unfortu- 
nate in  thy  ending,  which  should  have  been  mild,  con- 
ciliatory, swan-like. 

Much  remains  to  sing.     Many  fantastic  shapes  rise  20 
up,  but  they  must  be  mine  in  private, — already  I  have 
fooled  the  reader  to  the  top  of  his  bent, — else  could 
I  omit  that  strange  creature  Woollett,  who  existed  in 
trying  the  question,  and  bought  litigations  ? — and  still 
stranger,  inimitable,  solemn    Hepworth,  from    whose  25 
gravity  Newton  might  have  deduced  the  law  of  gravi- 
tation.    How  profoundly  would  he  nib  a  pen — with 
what  deliberation  would  he  wet  a  wafer  ! 

But  it  is  time  to  close — night's  wheels  are  rattling 
fast   over  me— it  is  proper  to  have   done   with   this  30 
solemn  mockery. 

Reader,  what  if  I  have  been  playing  with  thee  all 


THE   SOUTH-SEA   HOUSE.  125 

this  while?— peradventure  the  very  names,  which  I 
have  summoned  up  before  thee,  are  fantastic — unsub- 
stantial— like  Henry  Pimpernel,  and  old  John  Naps  of 
Greece. 

5      Be  satisfied  that  something  answering  to  them  has 
had  a  being.     Their  importance  is  from  the  past. 


XV. 

Set  ffrancceco  <3oes  to  Cburcb. 
WALTER    SAVAGE    LANDOR. 

From  The  Pentameron  (iii).  This  passage,  through  proceeding 
by  narrative  and  dialogue,  is  purely  descriptive  in  intent.  It  is 
chosen  for  the  delight  in  the  picturesque  which  appears  in  the 
peculiarly  artistic  handling  of  details. 

IT  being  now  the  Lord's  Day,  Messer  Francesco 
thought  it  meet  that  he  should  rise  early  in  the  morn- 
ing and  bestir  himself,  to  hear  mass  in  the  parish 
church  at  Certaldo.  Whereupon  he  went  on  tiptoe, 
if  so  weighty  a  man  could  indeed  go  in  such  a  fashion,  5 
and  lifted  softly  the  latch  of  Ser  Giovanni's  chamber- 
door,  that  he  might  salute  him  ere  he  departed,  and 
occasion  no  wonder  at  the  step  he  was  about  to  take. 
He  found  Ser  Giovanni  fast  asleep,  with  the  missal 
wide  open  across  his  nose,  and  a  pleasant  smile  on  his  10 
genial  joyous  mouth.  Ser  Francesco  leaned  over  the 
couch,  closed  his  hands  together,  and,  looking  with 
even  more  than  his  usual  benignity,  said  in  a  low 
voice  : 

"  God  bless  thee,  gentle  soul !  the  Mother  of  Purity  15 
and  Innocence  protect  thee  !  " 

He  then  went  into  the  kitchen,  where  he  found  the 
girl  A^sunta,  and  mentioned  his  resolution.     She  in- 

126 


SEX  FRANCESCO   GOES    TO   CHURCH.         127 

formed  him  that  the  horse  had  eaten  his  two  beans,1 
and  was  as  strong  as  a  lion  and  as  ready  as  a  lover. 
Ser  Francesco  patted  her  on  the  cheek,  and  called  her 
semplicetta  !  She  was  overjoyed  at  this  honour  from  so 
5  great  a  man,  the  bosom  friend  of  her  good  master, 
whom  she  had  always  thought  the  greatest  man  in  the 
world,  not  excepting  Monsignore,  until  he  told  her  he 
was  only  a  dog  confronted  with  Ser  Francesco.  She 
tripped  alertly  across  the  paved  court  into  the  stable, 

10  and  took  down  the  saddle  and  bridle  from  the  farther 
end  of  the  rack.  But  Ser  Francesco,  with  his  natural 
politeness,  would  not  allow  her  to  equip  his  palfrey. 

"  This  is  not  the  work  for  maidens,"  said  he  ;  "  re- 
turn to  the  house,  good  girl !  " 

15  She  lingered  a  moment,  then  went  away;  but,  mis- 
trusting the  dexterity  of  Ser  Francesco,  she  stopped 
and  turned  back  again,  and  peeped  through  the  half- 
closed  door,  and  heard  sundry  sobs  and  wheezes 
round  about  the  girth.  Ser  Francesco's  wind  ill 

20  seconded  his  intention  ;  and,  although  he  had  thrown 
the  saddle  valiantly  and  stoutly  in  its  station,  yet  the 
girths  brought  him  into  extremity.  She  entered  again, 
and  dissembling  the  reason,  asked  him  whether  he 
would  not  take  a  small  beaker  of  the  sweet  white 

25  wine  before  he  set  out,  and  offered  to  girdle  the  horse 
while  his  reverence  bitted  and  bridled  him.  Before 
any  answer  could  be  returned,  she  had  begun.  And 
having  now  satisfactorily  executed  her  undertaking, 
she  felt  irrepressible  delight  and  glee  at  being  able  to 

30  do  what  Ser  Francesco  had  failed  in.     He  was  scarcely 

1  Literally,  due  fave,  the  expression  on  such  occasions  to  signify 
a  small  quantity. 


128  WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 

more  successful  with  his  allotment  of  the  labour ; 
found  unlooked-for  intricacies  and  complications  in 
the  machinery,  wondered  that  human  wit  could  not 
simplify  it,  and  declared  that  the  animal  had  never 
exhibited  such  restiveness  before.  In  fact,  he  never  5 
had  experienced  the  same  grooming.  At  this  con- 
juncture, a  green  cap  made  its  appearance,  bound 
with  straw-coloured  ribbon,  and  surmounted  with  two 
bushy  sprigs  of  hawthorn,  of  which  the  globular  buds 
were  swelling,  and  some  bursting,  but  fewer  yet  open.  10 
It  was  young  Simplizio  Nardi,  who  sometimes  came 
on  the  Sunday  morning  to  sweep  the  court-yard  for 
Assunta. 

"  Oh  !    this    time    you   are   come    just   when   you 
were  wanted,"  said  the   girl.     "  Bridle,   directly,  Ser  15 
Francesco's  horse,    and    then    go    away    about   your 
business."  / 

The   youth  blushed,    and   kissed    Ser   Francesco's 
hand,   begging   his    permission.     It   was  soon   done. 
He  then  held  the  stirrup  ;  and  Ser  Francesco,  with  20 
scarcely  three   efforts,  was  seated   and  erect  on   the 
saddle.     The   horse,    however,   had    somewhat   more 
inclination  for  the  stable   than  for   the  expedition  ; 
and,  as   Assunta  was  handing  to  the  rider  his  long 
ebony  staff,  bearing  an  ivory  caduceus,  the  quadruped  25 
turned  suddenly  round.     Simplizio  called  him  bestiac- 
cia  !  and  then  softening  it,  poco  garbato  !  and  proposed 
to  Ser  Francesco  that  he  should  leave  the  bastone  be- 
hind, and  take  the  crab-switch  he  presented  to  him, 
giving  at  the  same  time  a  sample  of  its  efficacy,  which  30 
covered  the  long  grizzle  hair  of  the  worthy  quadruped 
with  a  profusion  of  pink  blossoms,  like  embroidery. 


SER  FRANCESCO   GOES    TO   CHURCH.         129 

The  offer  was  declined  ;  but  Assunta  told  Simplizio 
to  carry  it  himself,  and  to  walk  by  the  side  of  Ser 
Canonico  quite  up  to  the  church-porch,  having  seen 
what  a  sad,  dangerous  beast  his  reverence  had  under 
5  him. 

With  perfect  good  will,  partly  in  the  pride  of  obedi- 
ence to  Assunta,  and  partly  to  enjoy  the  renown  of 
accompanying  a  canon  of  holy  church,  Simplizio  did 
as  she  enjoined. 

10     And  now  the  sound  of  village  bells,  in  many  ham- 

|  lets  and  convents  and  churches  out  of  sight,  was  in- 
distinctly heard,  and  lost  again  ;  and  at  last  the  five 
of  Certaldo  seemed  to  crow  over  the  faintness  of  them 
all.  The  freshness  of  the  morning  was  enough  o* 

15  itself  to  excite  the  spirits  of  youth  ;  a  portion  of  which 
never  fails  to  descend  on  years  that  are  far  removed 
from  it,  if  the  mind  has  partaken  in  innocent  mirth 
while  it  was  its  season  and  its  duty  to  enjoy  it. 
Parties  of  young  and  old  passed  the  canonico  and  his 

20  attendant  with  mute  respect,  bowing  and  bare-headed; 
for  that  ebony  staff  threw  its  spell  over  the  tongue, 
which  the  frank  and  hearty  salutation  of  the  bearer 
was  inadequate  to  break.  Simplizio,  once  or  twice, 
attempted  to  call  back  an  intimate  of  the  same  age 

25  with  himself  ;  but  the  utmost  he  could  obtain  was  a 
riveritissimo !  and  a  genuflexion  to  the  rider.  It  is 
reported  that  a  heart-burning  rose  up  from  it  in  the 
breast  of  a  cousin,  some  days  after,  too  distinctly 
apparent  in  the  long-drawn  appellation  of  Gnor* 

30  Simplizio. 

Ser  Francesco  moved  gradually  forward,  his  steed 

2  Contraction  of  signer,  customary  in  Tuscany. 


130  WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 

picking  his  way  along  the  lane,  and  looking  fixedly 
on  the  stones  with  all  the  sobriety  of  a  mineralogist. 
He  himself  was  well  satisfied  with  the  pace,  and  told 
Simplizio  to  be  sparing  of  the  switch,  unless  in  case 
of  a  hornet  or  a  gadfly.  Simplizio  smiled,  toward  the  5 
hedge,  and  wondered  at  the  condescension  of  so  great 
a  theologian  and  astrologer,  in  joking  with  him  about 
the  gadflies  and  hornets  in  the  beginning  of  April. 
"  Ah  !  there  are  men  in  the  world  who  can  make  wit 
out  of  anything  !  "  said  he  to  himself.  10 

As  they  approached  the  walls  of  the  town,  the 
whole  country  was  pervaded  by  a  stirring  and  diversi- 
fied air  of  gladness.  Laughter  and  songs  and  flutes 
and  viols,  inviting  voices  and  complying  responses, 
mingled  with  merry  bells  and  with  processional  15 
hymns,  along  the  woodland  paths  and  along  the  yel- 
low meadows.  It  was  really  the  Lord's  Day,  tor  he 
made  his  creatures  happy  in  it,  and  their  hearts  were 
thankful.  Even  the  cruel  had  ceased  from  cruelty  ; 
and  the  rich  man  alone  exacted  from  the  animal  his  20 
daily  labour.  Ser  Francesco  made  this  remark,  and 
told  his  youthful  guide  that  he  had  never  been  before 
where  he  could  not  walk  to  church  on  a  Sunday  ;  and 
that  nothing  should  persuade  him  to  urge  the  speed 
of  his  beast,  on  the  seventh  day,  beyond  his  natural  25 
and  willing  foot's-pace.  He  reached  the  gates  of 
Certaldo  more  than  half  an  hour  before  the  time  of 
service,  and  he  found  laurels  suspended  over  them, 
and  being  suspended  ;  and  many  pleasant  and  beau- 
tiful faces  were  protruded  between  the  ranks  of  gentry  3C 
and  clergy  who  awaited  him.  Little  did  he  expect 
such  an  attendance ;  but  Fra  Biagio  of  San  Vivaldo, 


SER  FRANCESCO   GOES   TO   CHURCH.         131 

who  himself  had  offered  no  obsequiousness  or  respect, 
had  scattered  the  secret  of  his  visit  throughout  the 
whole  country.  A  young  poet,  the  most  celebrated  in 
the  town,  approached  the  canonico  with  a  long  scroll 
5  of  verses,  which  fell  below  the  knee,  beginning, 

How  shall  we  welcome  our  illustrious  guest  ? 

To  which  Ser  Francesco  immediately  replied, 
"  Take  your  favourite  maiden,  lead  the  dance  with 
her,  and  bid  all  your  friends  follow  ;  you  have  a  good 

10  half-hour  for  it." 

Universal  applauses  succeeded,  the  music  struck  up, 
couples  were  instantly  formed.  The  gentry  on  this 
occasion  led  out  the  cittadinanza,  as  they  usually  do 
in  the  villeggiatura,  rarely  in  the  carnival,  and  never 

15  at  other  times.  The  elder  of  the  priests  stood  round 
in  their  sacred  vestments,  and  looked  with  cordiality 
and  approbation  on  the  youths,  whose  hands  and  arms 
could  indeed  do  much,  and  did  it,  but  whose  active 
eyes  could  rarely  move  upward  the  modester  of  their 

20  partners. 

While  the  elder  of  the  clergy  were  thus  gathering 
the  fruits  of  their  liberal  cares  and  paternal  exhorta- 
tions, some  of  the  younger  looked  on  with  a  tenderer 
sentiment,  not  unmingled  with  regret.  Suddenly  the 

25  bells  ceased  ;  the  figure  of  the  dance  was  broken  ;  all 
hastened  into  the  church  ;  and  many  hands  that 
joined  on  the  green  met  together  at  the  font,  and 
touched  the  brow  reciprocally  with  its  lustral  waters, 
in  soul-devotion. 

30     After  the  service,  and  after  a  sermon  a  good  church- 


132  WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 

hour  in  length  to  gratify  him,  enriched  with  compli- 
ments from  all  authors,  Christian  and  Pagan,  inform- 
ing him  at  the  conclusion  that,  although  he  had  been 
crowned  in  the  Capitol,  he  must  die,  being  born 
mortal,  Ser  Francesco  rode  homeward.  The  sermon  5 
seemed  to  have  sunk  deeply  into  him,  and  even  into 
the  horse  under  him,  for  both  of  them  nodded,  both 
snorted,  and  one  stumbled.  Simplizio  was  twice  fain 
lo  cry  : 

"  Ser  Canonico  !  Riverenza  !  in  this  country  if  we  10 
sleep  before  dinner  it  does  us  harm.    There  are  stones 
in   the   road,   Ser  Canonico,   loose  as  eggs  in  a  nest, 
and  pretty  nigh  as  thick  together,  huge  as  mountains." 

"  Good  lad  !  "  said  Ser  Francesco,  rubbing  his  eyes, 
"  toss  the  biggest  of  them  out  of  the  way,  and  never  15 
mind  the  rest." 

The  horse,  although  he  walked,  shuffled  almost  into 
an  amble  as  he  approached  the  stable,  and  his  master 
looked  up  at  it  with   nearly   the  same  contentment. 
Assunta  had  been  ordered  to  wait  for  his  return,  and  20 
cried  : 

"  Oh,  Ser  Francesco !  you  are  looking  at  our  long 
apricot,  that  runs  the  whole  length  of  the  stable  and 
barn,  covered  with  blossoms  as  the  old  white  hen  is 
with  feathers.  You  must  come  in  the  summer,  and  25 
eat  this  fine  fruit  with  Signor  Padrone.  You  cannot 
think  how  ruddy  and  golden  and  sweet  and  mellow  it 
is.  There  are  peaches  in  all  the  fields,  and  plums, 
and  pears,  and  apples,  but  there  is  not  another  apricot 
for  miles  and  miles.  Ser  Giovanni  brought  the  stone  30 
from  Naples  before  I  was  born  :  a  lady  gave  it  to  him 
when  she  had  eaten  only  half  the  fruit  off  it  :  but  per- 


SER  FRANCESCO   GOES   TO   CHURCH.         133 

haps  you  may  have  seen  her,  for  you  have  ridden  as 
far  as  Rome,  or  beyond.  Padrone  looks  often  at  the 
fruit,  and  eats  it  willingly  ;  and  I  have  seen  him  turn 
over  the  stones  in  his  plate,  and  choose  one  from  the 
5  rest,  and  put  it  into  his  pocket,  but  never  plant  it," 


XVI. 

1T*  B  l&igbt  Bmong  tbe  pines.1 
mr.  flfcemofrs  of  Bit  Uslet*2 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 

The  classic  quality  in  Stevenson's  writing  is  most  strilattg  IA  his 
descriptions.  As  fair  specimens  of  his  best  work  thsse  extracts 
will  repay  somewhat  minute  study. 


FROM  Bleymard  after  dinner,  although  it  was  already 
late,  I  set  out  to  scale  a  portion  of  the  Lozbre.  An  ill- 
marked  stony  drove-road  guided  me  forward  ;  and  I 
met  nearly  half  a  dozen  bullock-carts  descending  from 
the  woods,  each  laden  with  a  whole  pine-tree  for  the  5 
winter's  firing.  At  the  top  of  the  woods,  which  do 
not  climb  very  high  upon  this  cold  ridge,  I  struck 
leftward  by  a  path  among  the  pines,  until  I  hit  on 
a  dell  of  green  turf,  where  a  streamlet  made  a  little 
spout  over  some  stones  to  serve  me  for  a  water-tap,  10 
"  In  a  more  sacred  or  sequestered  bower — nor  nymph 
nor  faunus  haunted."  The  trees  were  not  old,  but 
they  grew  thickly  round  the  glade  :  there  was  no  out- 

1  Printed,  by  kind  permission  of  Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers,  from 
Travels  with  a  Donkey. 

2  Printed,  by  kind  permission   of  Messrs,   Charles   Scribner's 
Sons,  from  Memories  and  Portraits. 


A   NIGHT  AMONG    THE  PINES.  135 

look,  except  northeastward  upon  distant  hill-tops,  or 
straight  upward  to  the  sky ;  and  the  encampment  felt 
secure  and  private  like  a  room.  By  the  time  I  had 
made  my  arrangements  and  fed  Modestine,  the  day  was 
5  already  beginning  to  decline.  I  buckled  myself  to  the 
knees  into  my  sack  and  made  a  hearty  meal  ;  and  as 
soon  as  the  sun  went  down,  I  pulled  my  cap  over  my 
eyes  and  fell  asleep. 

Night  is  a  dead  monotonous  period  under  a  roof  ; 

10  but  in  the  open  world  it  passes  lightly,  with  its  stars 
and  dews  and  perfumes,  and  the  hours  are  marked  by 
changes  in  the  face  of  Nature.  What  seems  a  kind  of 
temporal  death  to  people  choked  between  walls  and 
curtains,  is  only  a  light  and  living  slumber  to  the  man 

15  who  sleeps  afield.  All  night  long  he  can  hear  Nature 
breathing  deeply  and  freely  ;  even  as  she  takes  her 
rest  she  turns  and  smiles  ;  and  there  is  one  stirring 
hour  unknown  to  those  who  dwell  in  houses,  when  a 
wakeful  influence  goes  abroad  over  the  sleeping 

20  hemisphere,  and  all  the  outdoor  world  are  on  their 
feet.  It  is  then  that  the  cock  first  crows,  not  this 
time  to  announce  the  dawn,  but  like  a  cheerful  watch- 
man speeding  the  course  of  night.  Cattle  awake  on 
the  meadows  ;  sheep  break  their  fast  on  dewy  hillsides, 

25  and  change  to  a  new  lair  among  the  ferns  ;  and  house- 
less men,  who  have  lain  down  with  the  fowls,  open 
their  dim  eyes  and  behold  the  beauty  of  the  night. 

At  what  inaudible  summons,  at  what  gentle  touch  of 
Nature,  are  all  these  sleepers  thus  recalled  in  the  same 

30 hour  to  life?  Do  the  stars  rain  down  an  influence, 
or  do  we  share  some  thrill  of  mother  earth  below  our 
resting  bodies  ?  Even  shepherds  and  old  country- 


136  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 

folk,  who  are  the  deepest  read  in  these  arcana,  have 
not  a  guess  as  to  the  means  or  purpose  of  this  mighty 
resurrection.  Toward  two  in  the  morning  they 
declare  the  thing  takes  place  ;  and  neither  know  nor 
inquire  further.  And  at  least  it  is  a  pleasant  incident.  5 
We  are  disturbed  in  our  slumber  only,  like  the 
luxurious  Montaigne,  "  that  we  may  the  better  and 
more  sensibly  relish  it."  We  have  a  moment  to  look 
upon  the  stars,  and  there  is  a  special  pleasure  for 
some  minds  in  the  reflection  that  we  share  the  impulse  10 
with  all  outdoor  creatures  in  our  neighbourhood,  that 
we  have  escaped  out  of  the  Bastille  of  civilization,  and 
are  become,  for  the  time  being,  a  mere  kindly  animal 
and  a  sheep  of  Nature's  flock. 

When  that  hour  came  to  me  among  the  pines,  1 15 
wakened  thirsty.     My  tin  was  standing  by  me  half  full 
of  water.     I   emptied    it    at  a  draught  ;    and    feeling 
broad    awake   after   this   internal   cold  aspersion,  sat 
upright  to  make  a  cigarette.     The  stars  were  clear, 
coloured,  and  jewel-like,  but  not  frosty.     A  faint  silvery  20 
vapour  stood  for  the  Milky  Way.     All  around  me  the 
black  fir-points  stood  upright  and  stock-still.     By  the 
whiteness  of  the  pack-saddle,  I  could  see  Modestine 
walking  round  and  round  at  the  length  of  her  tether  ; 
I  could  hear  her  steadily  munching  at  the  sward  ;  but  25 
there  was  not  another  sound,  save  the  indescribable 
quiet  talk  of  the  runnel  over  the  stones.     I  lay  lazily 
smoking  and  studying  the  colour  of  the  sky,  as  we  call 
the  void  of   space,  from  where  it    showed  a  reddish 
gray  behind  the  pines  to  where  it  showed  a  glossy  30 
blue-black  between  the  stars.     As  if  to  be  more  like 
a  peddler,  I  wear  a  silver   ring.     This    I   could   see 


A   N1CHT  AMONG   THE  PINES.  137 

faintly  shining  as  I  raised  or  lowered  the  cigarette; 
and  at  each  whiff  the  inside  of  my  hand  was  illumin- 
ated, and  became  for  a  second  the  highest  light  in  the 
landscape. 

5  A  faint  wind,  more  like  a  moving  coolness  than  a 
stream  of  air,  passed  down  the  glade  from  time  to 
time  ;  so  that  even  in  my  great  chamber  the  air  was 
being  renewed  all  night  long.  1  thought  with  horror 
of  the  inn  at  Chasseradh  and  the  congregated  night- 

10  caps  ;  with  horror  of  the  nocturnal  prowesses  of  clerks 
and  students,  of  hot  theatres  and  pass-keys  and  close 
rooms.  I  have  not  often  enjoyed  a  more  serene  pos- 
session of  myself,  nor  felt  more  independent  of 
material  aids.  The  outer  world,  from  which  we 

15  cower  into  our  houses,  seemed  after  all  a  gentle  habit- 
able place  ;  and  night  after  night  a  man's  bed,  it 
seemed,  was  laid  and  waiting  for  him  in  the  fields, 
where  God  keeps  an  open  house.  I  thought  I  had 
rediscovered  one  of  those  truths  which  are  revealed  to 

20  savages  and  hid  from  political  economists  :  at  the  least, 
I  had  discovered  a  new  pleasure  for  myself.  And  yet 
even  while  I  was  exulting  in  my  solitude  I  became 
aware  of  a  strange  lack.  I  wished  a  companion  to 
lie  near  me  in  the  starlight,  silent  and  not  moving, 

25  but  ever  within  touch.  For  there  is  a  fellowship 
more  quiet  even  than  solitude,  and  which,  rightly 
understood,  is  solitude  made  perfect.  And  to  live 
out  of  doors  with  the  woman  a  man  loves  is  of  all 
lives  the  most  complete  and  free. 

30  As  I  thus  lay,  between  content  and  longing,  a  faint 
noise  stole  towards  me  through  the  pines.  I  thought, 
at  first,  it  was  the  crowing  of  cocks  or  the  barking  of 


138  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 

dogs  at  some  very  distant  farm  ;  but  steadily  and 
gradually  it  took  articulate  shape  in  my  ears,  until  I 
became  aware  that  a  passenger  was  going  by  upon  the 
high-road  in  the  valley,  and  singing  Joudly  as  he  went. 
There  was  more  of  good-will  than  grace  in  his  per-  5 
formance  ;  but  he  trolled  with  ample  lungs  ;  and  the 
sound  of  his  voice  took  hold  upon  the  hillside  and  set 
the  air  shaking  in  the  leafy  glens.  I  have  heard  peo- 
ple passing  by  night  in  sleeping  cities ;  some  of  them 
sang  ;  one,  I  remember,  played  loudly  on  the  bag-  10 
pipes.  I  have  heard  the  rattle  of  a  cart  or  carriage 
spring  up  suddenly  after  hours  of  stillness,  and  pass, 
for  som.e  minutes,  within  the  range  of  my  hearing  as  I 
lay  abed.  There  is  a  romance  about  all  who  are 
abroad  in  the  black  hours,  and  with  something  of  a  15 
thrill  we  try  to  guess  their  business.  But  here  the 
romance  was  double  :  first,  this  glad  passenger,  lit 
internally  with  wine,  who  sent  up  his  voice  in  music 
through  the  night  ;  and  then  I,  on  the  other  hand, 
buckled  into  my  sack,  and  smoking  alone  in  the  pine-  20 
woods  between  four  and  five  thousand  feet  towards  the 
stars. 

When  I  awoke  again  (Sunday,  2§th  September),  many 
of  the  stars  had  disappeared  ;   only  the  stronger  com- 
panions of  the  night  still  burned  visibly  overhead  ;  and  25 
away  towards  the  east  I  saw  a  faint  haze  of  light  upon 
the  horizon,  such  as  had  been  the  Milky  Way  when  I 
was  last  awake.     Day  was  at  hand.     I  lit  my  lantern, 
and   by   its   glowworm    light   put   on   my  boots    and 
gaiters  ;   then  I  broke  up  some  bread  for  Modestine,  30 
filled  my  can  at  the  water-tap,  and  lit  my  spirit-lamp 
to  boil  myself  some  chocolate.     The  blue  darkness 


A   NIGHT  AMONG    THE  PINES.  139 

lay  long  in  the  glade  where  I  had  so  sweetly  slumbered  ; 
but  soon  there  was  a  broad  streak  of  orange  melting 
into  gold  along  the  mountain-tops  of  Vivarais.  A 
solemn  glee  possessed  my  mind  at  this  gradual  and 
5  lovely  coming  in  of  day.  I  heard  the  runnel  with 
delight ;  I  looked  ro.und  me  for  something  beautiful 
and  unexpected  ;  but  the  still  black  pine-trees,  the 
hollow  glade,  the  munching  ass,  remained  unchanged 
in  figure.  Nothing  had  altered  but  the  light,  and  that, 

10  indeed,  shed  over  all  a  spirit  of  life  and  of  breathing 
peace,  and  moved  me  to  a  strange  exhilaration. 

I  drank  my  water  chocolate,  which  was  hot  if  it  was 
not  rich,  and  strolled  here  and  there,  and  up  and 
down  about  the  glade.  While  I  was  thus  delaying,  a 

15  gush  of  steady  wind,  as  long  as  a  heavy  sigh,  poured 
direct  out  of  the  quarter  of  the  morning.  It  was  cold, 
and  set  me  sneezing.  The  trees  near  at  hand  tossed 
their  black  plumes  in  its  passage  ;  and  I  could  see  the 
thin  distant  spires  of  pine  along  the  edge  of  the  hill 

±o  rock  slightly  to  and  fro  against  the  golden  east.  Ten 
minutes  after,  the  sunlight  spread  at  a  gallop  along 
the  hillside,  scattering  shadows  and  sparkles,  and  the 
day  had  come  completely. 

I  hastened  to  prepare    my  pack,  and    tackle  the 

25  steep  ascent  that  lay  before  me  ;  but  I  had  something 
on  my  mind.  It  was  only  a  fancy  ;  yet  a  fancy  will 
sometimes  be  importunate.  I  had  been  most  hospit- 
ably received  and  punctually  served  in  my  green  cara- 
vanserai. The  room  was  airy,  the  water  excellent, 

30  and  the  dawn  had  called  me  to  a  moment.  I  say 
nothing  of  the  tapestries  or  the  inimitable  ceiling,  nor 
yet  of  the  view  which  I  command  from  the  windows; 


140  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 

but  I  felt  I  was  in  some  one's  debt  for  all  this  liberal 
entertainment.  And  so  it  pleased  me,  in  a  half- 
laughing  way,  to  leave  pieces  of  money  on  the  turf  as 
I  went  along,  until  I  had  left  enough  for  my  night's 
lodging.  I  trust  they  did  not  fall  to  some  rich  and  5 
churlish  drover. 


II. 

The  little  isle  of  Earraid  lies  close  in  to  the  south- 
west corner  of  the  Ross  of  Mull :  the  sound  of  lona  on 
one  side,  across  which  you  may  see  the  isle  and  church 
of  Columba  ;  the  open  sea  to  the  other,  where  you  10 
shall  be  able  to  mark  on  a  clear,  surfy  day,  the 
breakers  running  white  on  many  sunken  rocks.  I  first 
saw  it,  or  first  remember  seeing  it,  framed  in  the  round 
bull's-eye  of  a  cabin  port,  the  sea  lying  smooth  along 
its  shores  like  the  waters  of  a  lake,  the  colourless,  clear  15 
light  of  the  early  morning  making  plain  its  heathery 
and  rocky  hummocks.  There  stood  upon  it,  in  those 
days,  a  single  rude  house  of  uncemented  stones,  ap- 
proached by  a  pier  of  wreck-wood.  It  must  have 
been  very  early,  for  it  was  then  summer,  and  in  20 
summer,  in  that  latitude,  day  scarcely  withdraws  ;  but 
even  at  that  hour  the  house  was  making  a  sweet  smoke 
of  peats  which  came  to  me  over  the  bay,  and  the  bare- 
legged daughters  of  the  cotter  were  wading  by  the 
pier.  The  same  day  we  visited  the  shores  of  the  isle  25; 
in  the  ship's  boats  ;  rowed  deep  into  Fiddler's  Hole, 
sounding  as  we  went ;  and,  having  taken  stock  of  all 
possible  accommodation,  pitched  on  the  northern  inlet 
as  the  scene  of  operations.  For  it  was  no  accident 


MEMOIRS  OF  AN'  I^RT.  14* 

that  had  brought  the  lighthouse  steamer  to  anchor  in 
the  Bay  of  Earraid.  Fifteen  miles  away  to  seaward,  a 
certain  black  rock  stood  environed  by  the  Atlantic 
rollers,  the  outpost  of  the  Torran  reefs.  Here  was  a 

5  tower  to  be  built,  and  a  star  lighted,  for  the  conduct  of 
seamen.  But  as  the  rock  was  small,  and  hard  of  ac- 
cess, and  far  from  land,  the  work  would  be  one  of 
years  ;  and  my  father  was  now  looking  for  a  shore 
station,  where  the  stones  might  be  quarried  and 

10  dressed,  the  men  live,  and  the  tender,  with  some  de- 
gree of  safety,  lie  at  anchor. 

I  saw  Earraid  next  from  the  stern-thwart  of  an  lona 
lugger,  Sam  Bough  and  I  sitting  there  cheek  by  jowl, 
with  our  feet  upon  our  baggage,  in  a  beautiful,  clear, 

15  northern  summer  eve.  And  behold  !  there  was  now  a 
pier  of  stone,  there  were  rows  of  sheds,  railways,  travel- 
ling-cranes, a  street  of  cottages,  an  iron  house  for  the 
resident  engineer,  wooden  bothies  for  the  men,  a  stage 
where  the  courses  of  the  tower  were  put  together  ex- 

20  perimentally,  and  behind  the  settlement  a  great  gash 
in  the  hillside  where  granite  was  quarried.  In  the 
bay,  the  steamer  lay  at  her  moorings.  All  day  long 
there  hung  about  the  place  the  music  of  chinking 
tools  ;  and  even  in  the  dead  of  night  the  watchman 

25  carried  his  lantern  to  and  fro,  in  the  dark  settlement, 
and  could  light  the  pipe  of  any  midnight  muser.  It 
was,  above  all,  strange  to  see  Earraid  on  the  Sunday, 
when  the  sound  of  the  tools  ceased  and  there  fell  a 
crystal  quiet.  All  about  the  green  compound  men 

30  would  be  sauntering  in  their  Sunday's  best,  walking 
with  those  lax  joints  of  the  reposing  toiler,  thought- 
fully smoking,  talking  small,  as  if  in  he«our  e£  th^ 


14*  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 

stillness,  or  hearkening  to  the  wailing  of  the  gulls. 
And  it  was  strange  to  see  our  Sabbath  services,  held, 
as  they  were,  in  one  of  the  bothies,  with  Mr.  Brebner 
reading  at  a  table,  and  the  congregation  perched  about 
in  the  double  tier  of  sleeping-bunks  ;  and  to  hear  the  5 
singing  of  the  psalms,  *  the  chapters/  the  inevitable 
Spurgeon's  sermon,  and  the  old,  eloquent  lighthouse 
prayer. 

In  fine  weather,  when  by  the  spy-glass  on  the  hill 
the  sea  was  observed  to  run  low  upon  the  reef,  there  10 
would  be  a  sound  of  preparation  in  the  very  early 
morning;  and  before  the  sun  had  risen  from  behind 
Ben  More,  the  tender  would  steam  out  of  the  bay. 
Over   fifteen  sea-miles   of    the    great    blue   Atlantic 
rollers  she  ploughed  her  way,  trailing  at  her  tail  a  15 
brace  of  wallowing  stone-lighters.     The  open   ocean 
widened  upon  either  board,  and  the  hills  of  the  main- 
land began  to  go  down  on   the  horizon,  before  she 
came  to  her  unhomely  destination,  and  lay-to  at  last 
where  the  rock  clapped  its  black  head  above  the  swell,  20 
with  the  tall  iron  barrack  on  its  spider  legs,  and  the 
truncated  tower,  and  the  cranes  waving  their  arms,  and 
the  smoke  of  the  engine-fire  rising  in   the   mid-sea. 
An  ugly  reef  is  this  of  the  Dhu  Heartach  ;  no  pleas- 
ant  assemblage   of   shelves,   and   pools,   and  creeks,  25 
about  which  a  child  might  play  for  a  whole  summer 
without  weariness,  like  the  Bell  Rock  or  the  Skerryvore, 
but  one  oval  nodule  of  black-trap,  sparsely  bedabbled 
with  an  inconspicuous  fucus,  and  alive  in  every  crevice 
with  a  dingy  insect  between  a  slater  and  a  bug.     No  30 
other  life  was  there  but  that  of  sea-birds,  and  of  the 
sea  itself,  that  here  ran  like  a  mill-race,  and  growled 


MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ISLET.  143 

about  the  outer  rpp/  forrrer,  and  ever  and  again,  in  the 
calmest  weather,  roared  >>nd  spouted  on  the  rock  itself. 
Times  were  #;fferent  upon  Dim  Heartach  when  it 
blew,  and  the  n:£ht  fei1.  dark,  and  the  neighbour  lights 
5  of  Skerryvore  ar,d  P.hiwal  were  quenched  in  fog,  and 
the  men  sat  prisoned  high  up  in  their  iron  drum,  that 
then  resounded  with  che  lashing  of  the  sprays.  Fear 
sat  with  them  in  their  sea-beleaguered  dwelling  ;  and 
the  colour  changed  in  anxious  faces  when  some  greater 

10 billow  struck  the  barrack,  and  its  pillars  quivered  and 
sprang  under  the  blow.  It  was  then  that  the  foreman 
builder,  Mr.  Goodwillie,  whom  I  see  before  me  still 
in  his  rock-habit  of  undecipherable  rags,  would  get 
his  fiddle  down  and  strike  up  human  minstrelsy  amid 

15  the  music  of  the  storm.  But  it  was  in  sunshine  only 
that  I  saw  Dhu  Heartach  ;  and  it  was  in  sunshine,  or 
the  yet  lovelier  summer  afterglow,  that  the  steamer 
would  return  to  Earraid,  ploughing  an  enchanted  sea  ; 
the  obedient  lighters,  relieved  of  their  deck  cargo, 

20  riding  in  her  wake  more  quietly ;  and  the  steersman 
upon  each,  as  she  rose  on  the  long  swell,  standing 
tall  and  dark  against  the  shining  west. 

But  it  was  in  Earraid  itself  that  I  delighted  chiefly. 
The  lighthouse  settlement  scarce  encroached  beyond 

25  its  fences  ;  over  the  top  of  the  first  brae  the  ground 
was  all  virgin,  the  world  all  shut  out,  the  face  of 
things  unchanged  by  any  of  man's  doings.  Here  was 
no  living  presence,  save  for  the  limpets  on  the  rocks, 
for  some  old,  gray,  rain-beaten  ram  that  I  might  rouse 

30  out  of  a  ferny  den  betwixt  two  boulders,  or  for  the 
haunting  and  the  piping  of  the  gulls.  It  was  older 
than  man  ;  it  was  found  so  by  incoming  Celts,  and 


144  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON. 

seafaring  Norsemen,  and  Columba's  priests.  The 
earthy  savour  of  the  bog  plants,  the  rude  disorder  of 
the  boulders,  the  inimitable  seaside  brightness  of  the 
air,  the  brine  and  the  iodine,  the  lap  of  the  billows 
among  the  weedy  reefs,  the  sudden  springing  up  of  a  5 
great  run  of  dashing  surf  along  the  sea-front  of  the 
isle,— all  that  I  saw  and  felt  my  predecessors  must 
have  seen  and  felt  with  scarce  a  difference.  I  steeped 
myself  in  open  air  and  in  past  ages. 

"  Delightful  would  it  be  to  me  to  be  in  Uchd  Ailiun,  10 

On  the  pinnacle  of  a  rock, 
That  I  might  often  see 

The  face  of  the  ocean  ; 
That  I  might  hear  the  song  of  the  wonderful  birds, 

Source  of  happiness  ;  15 

That  I  might  hear  the  thunder  of  the  crowding  waves 

Upon  the  rocks  : 
At  times  at  work  without  compulsion — 

This  would  be  delightful  ; 
At  times  plucking  dulse  from  the  rocks  ;  20 

At  times  at  fishing." 

So,  about  the  next  island  of  lona,  sang  Columba 
himself  twelve  hundred  years  before.  And  so  might 
I  have  sung  of  Earraid. 

And  all  the  while  I  was  aware  that  this  life  of  sea-  25 
bathing  and  sun-burning  was  for  me  but  a  holiday. 
In  that  year  cannon  were  roaring  for  days  together  on 
French  battle-fields ;  and  I  would  sit  in  my  isle  (I  call 
it  mine,  after  the  use  of  lovers)  and  think  upon  the 
war,  and  the  loudness  of  these  far-away  battles,  and  30 
the  pain  of  the  men's  wounds,  and  the  weariness  of 
their  marching.     And  I  would  think  too  of  that  other 


MEMOIRS  OF  AN  ISLET.  145 

war  which  is  as  old  as  mankind,  and  is  indeed  the  life 
of  man  :  the  unsparing  war,  the  grinding  slavery  of 
competition  ;  the  toil  of  seventy  years,  dear-bought 
bread,  precarious  honour,  the  perils  and  pitfalls,  and 
5  the  poor  rewards.  It  was  a  long  look  forward  ;  the 
future  summoned  me  as  with  trumpet  calls,  it  warned 
me  back  as  with  a  voice  of  weeping  and  beseeching  ; 
and  I  thrilled  and  trembled  on  the  brink  of  life,  like  a 
childish  bather  on  the  beach. 

10  There  was  another  young  man  on  Earraid  in  these 
days,  and  we  were  much  together,  bathing,  clambering 
on  the  boulders,  trying  to  sail  a  boat  and  spinning 
round  instead  in  the  oily  whirlpools  of  the  roost.  But 
the  most  part  of  the  time  we  spoke  of  the  great  un- 

15  charted  desert  of  our  futures  ;  wondering  together 
what  should  there  befall  us  ;  hearing  with  surprise  the 
sound  of  our  own  voices  in  the  empty  vestibule  of 
youth.  As  far,  and  as  hard,  as  it  seemed  then  to  look 
forward  to  the  grave,  so  far  it  seems  now  to  look  back- 

20  ward  upon  these  emotions  ;  so  hard  to  recall  justly  that 
loath  submission,  as  of  the  sacrificial  bull,  with  which 
we  stooped  our  necks  under  the  yoke  of  destiny.  I 
met  my  old  companion  but  the  other  day  ;  I  cannot 
tell  of  course  what  he  was  thinking  ;  but,  upon  my 

25  part,  I  was  wondering  to  see  us  both  so  much  at  home, 
and  so  composed  and  sedentary  in  the  world  ;  and  how 
much  we  had  gained,  and  how  much  we  had  lost,  to 
attain  to  that  composure  ;  and  which  had  been  upon 
the  whole  our  best  estate  :  when  we  sat  there  prating 

30  sensibly  like  men  of  some  experience,  or  when  we 
shared  our  timorous  and  hopeful  counsels  in  a  western 
islet. 


O;     THf  xv 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  CITED, 


Blackmore,  Richard  Doddridge, 

Lorna  Doone,  xvii-xviii,  xxvi-xxvii,  xxxiv,  xlii 
Burroughs,  John, 

An  Idyl  of  the  Honey-Bee,  28-40 
Carlyle,  Thomas, 

Frederick  the  Great,  xxxviii 

The  French  Revolution,  xlviii,  61-69 

Life  of  John  Sterling,  xx,  xxii,  xxxviii 
Cowper,   William, 

Letters,  xlvii 
Defoe,  Daniel, 

From  London  to  Land's  End,  xx 

Robinson  Crusoe,  xxx,  xxxii 
Dickens,  Charles, 

The  Chimes,  xix,  xxxvii,  xli 

The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth,  xiii 

David  Copperfield,  xiii 

A  Tale  of  Two  Cities,  xiv 
Fuller,  Henry  B., 

The  Chevalier  of  Pensieri-Vani,  xviii 
Garland,  ffamlin, 

Main  Travelled  Roads,  101-113 
Gibbon,  Edward, 

The  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire,  xxiii-xxir,  xl, 

10-13,  45-51 
Gray,  7^homast 

Letters,  xx-xxi,  xxii,  xxvii-xxviii,  xxxviii,  xliii 
'47 


148  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  CITED. 

Hardy,  Arthur  Sherburnc, 

Passe  Rose,  xlvi 
Hardy,  Thomas ', 

Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles,  xxviii-xxix 
Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell, 

The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table,  xix 
james,  Henry, 

A  Little  Tour  in  France,  81-91 
Jessopp,  Augustus  H., 

The  Coming  of  the  Friars  and  Other  Essays,  13-18 
Johnson,  Samuel 

A  Journey  to  the   Western  Islands   of  Scotland,  xxv-xxvi, 

xxx vii,  xl 
Kipling,  Rudyard, 

The  Courting  of  Dinah  Shadd,  xxiii 
Lamb,   Charles, 

The  Essays  of  Elia,  114-125 
Landor,  Walter  Savage, 

The  Pentameron,  xxxviii,  126-133 

Pericles  and  Aspasia,  xxxviii 
Matthews,  Brander, 

Vignettes  of  Manhattan,  92-100 
du  Maurier,  George, 

Peter  Ibbetson,  xiii,  19-27 

Trilby,  xxxiii 
Motley,  J.  Lothrop, 

The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic,  xxii-xxiii 
Newman,  John  Henry,  Cardinalt 

Historical  Sketches,  1-9 
Parkman,  Francis, 

Montcalm  and  Wolfe,  xxii,  xxiv,  xxxix 
Pater,  Walter, 

Imaginary  Portraits,  76-80 

Marius  the  Epicurean,  xxxiv-xxxv,  xxxviii,  xxxix,  75-76 

The  Renaissance,  73-74 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  CITED.  149 

Ruskin,  John, 

Praeterita,  xvii,  xxviii,  xxxvii-xxxviii,  xliii,  52-60 
Stevenson,  Robert  Louis ; 

Across  the  Plains,  xxiv 

Kidnapped,  xlii-xliii 

Memories  and  Portraits,  140-145 

The  Strange  Case  of  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde,  xxxvi.  -di 

Travels  with  a  Donkey,  xi,  xlvi,  134-140 
Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles, 

Essays  and  Studies,  70-72 
White,  Gilbert, 

The  Natural  History  of  Selborne,  xlvi,  41-44 


